


Deodhar Blues & Shimla Greens

by CasMayaSutra



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Actor Jensen Ackles, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, As Misha, Bookstore Owner Misha, But I Bring Him Back, Castiel Dies, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017, Diplomat Castiel, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, MCD:Reincarnation, MISHA IN INDIA, Officer Dean, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasMayaSutra/pseuds/CasMayaSutra
Summary: In the green foothills of the Himalayas, a Deodhar tree waits patiently for the two lovers who carved their initials into its ancient wood, in turbulent pre-independence India.Then, Dean Winchester, a broken man, walked away from the love of his life, Castiel Novak, who vowed to wait for his lover to return.In 2017, Jensen Ackles, a Hollywood actor, is in Shimla to shoot a movie.A meeting with a quirky book seller with alluring blue eyes sets off a chain of events that will unravel secrets from the past.A tale of broken promises, and a forbidden love that is so strong that even Death cannot keep them apart.





	1. PRARAMBH: PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a story I started writing in August/September last year, then blocked majorly at the midway point, second-guessing myself. The scenes of Misha in India and his backstory (and the one with the blue kurta with the embroidery) were written way before Misha published his website. I was one delighted candy when I saw the photo of him in a similar kurta with Vicki.
> 
> Anyhoo, that put the fire back in my belly to write this, then came the DCBB sign-ups and I took that as a sign from Heaven. Sort of. (Twitter, for all practical purposes, can be called Fandom Heaven, amiright?)
> 
> A huge thanks to Cee [Cee (ljunattainable)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljunattainable/pseuds/ljunattainable), the first to take a look at this in its budding stage and encouraging me to continue.
> 
> My fantastic beta, [Laura (juastanotherbusyfangirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherbusyfangirl/pseuds/justanotherbusyfangirl), who stepped up and responded to my distress call on discord chat a mere TWO DAYS before draft submission, and who was instrumental in helping me close the story (Because there was so much story I could have told still, and I would have gone on and on and on...) you get the idea! Without you, I would have been a sad sad author, blocked, once again! I am forever in your debt. <3  
> Her fic posted a few days ago: check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12366750/chapters/28129689)
> 
> Special mention must be made of all my friends in the Discord chat: Darmys (let me know if you ended up reading the whole thing :) ), Res, Bexy, pantheon of discord, PopeCardinalWrites and superhoney who responded to my many panic-laden posts to check if a scene connected or made sense!! I loved the many WIP games and Res, thank you for the cat gifs.
> 
> To my supremely talented artist Aceriee: I was so honoured that you selected my fic because I have been in awe of your work on some of my favourite fics and I never in a million years would have thought I'd be so lucky!!! 
> 
> Folks don't forget to leave multiple kudos and comments on the fantastic art masterpost [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12701823) and [here](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/dcbb17dbsg)
> 
> Last but not least, our wonderful mods, Jojo and Muse for this opportunity to share a story that has been very close to my heart.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: A part of this story takes place amidst the turmoil that was the fight for Indian Independence. Historical reference is made to major events, names and places. This is a work of fiction, and no malice or harm is intended to any group, nationality or religion. 
> 
> Okay, on to the story. But before that, for Destiel-only folk:
> 
> A NOTE OF CAUTION: This story is a Destiel and Cockles piece (not combined), and I have tried to structure it so the only Destiel folks can avoid the Cockles. If RPF is not your jam, you can read ACT IV and the Epilogue. I will warn you though, that if you read Destiel only, you may see it as MCD since the happy ending happens in the reincarnation. I have, however, tried to give you a happy ending in the Epilogue, in any case.

 

 

 

 

 ****_Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known._

_~Carl Sagan_

 

On the 3rd of June, 1947, Lord Mountbatten, last Viceroy of India, called a press conference to make two major announcements. One was the partition of India into the countries of India and Pakistan.

The second was the Independence of India from the British Raj.

When Gabriel Novak woke up on that fateful morning, he had no inkling of the upheaval the two events would cause in the lives of his family.

His valet, Krishna, placed the morning tea and breakfast tray on the table in his room, and proceeded to open the heavy velvet drapes to allow the soft morning light to filter in through the sheer fabric lining behind.

“Good Morning, Master Gabriel,” the butler greeted as he turned around.

“What ho, my personal Jeeves! What tidings bring you, my good man? Has the world survived my absence as I slumbered through the night?” So Gabriel had a penchant for the dramatic. It wasn’t his fault that his talent was under appreciated in this family, and it definitely wasn’t going to stop him from hamming it up every chance he got.

Krishna’s lips flickered up at one end, as he busied himself with pouring the tea.

“The Viceroy is going to make an announcement today, Sir. It seems the whispers we have been hearing may be true.” He pointed to the telegram beside the tray.

“Well, go on, what does it say?”

Krishna opened the telegram. “It is from Master Castiel, Sir.”

 

**Gabe. Switch on radio 11AM. Big Announcement. Arriving Shimla tomorrow. Tell Dean. Cas.**

 

“Well, well, it looks like brother dearest may finally get some peace to live his own life, eh, Krishna?”

Castiel, a civil servant, had been working on the staff of Lord Mountbatten, the current Viceroy to India, since the man arrived to take charge of the SAC. According to Novak family tradition, the first son of the family went into service with the church, the youngest to service of king and country. Gabriel had always felt slighted that the family conveniently had no such aspirations for the sundry siblings in between. Their eldest brother, Michael, was the current Archdeacon in the Anglican Church for the diocese of Amritsar, under the Church of North India. He was an insufferable snob, and would be one of the people unhappy with the coming announcement, specially if, as popular opinion suggested, it would be in favour of their country of residence.

Gabriel himself felt relieved. India was the only home he had known. Castiel and himself had been born here, while their older siblings had been born back home in England before their father was transferred to the sub continent. The two of them had grown up playing with the local children and spoke the language like natives. Their older siblings, Michael in particular, held the view that the British were a benevolent race meant to bring light and God to the heathen natives. A view strongly objected to by both the youngest Novaks.

Still, Gabriel felt optimistic. The Indians would finally win the long and bloody fight for independence, and that meant his baby brother would be free to pursue his dream, rather than spend his life toeing the family line.

He recalled the last line of Castiel’s message, and instructed his friend and valet, “Krishna, send a messenger to the barracks for Captain Winchester. Tell him Cas is coming home.”


	2. ACT I: AAGMAN: ARRIVAL

 

__

 

_Important encounters are planned by the souls, long before the bodies see each other._

_~Paulo Coelho_

 

Jensen Ackles peers past his reflection in the aircraft window to the inky darkness outside. Staring at the hypnotic blinking of the plane’s wing lights illuminating the dense clouds beneath, his mind wanders to the turmoil of the past couple of months, and he experiences a feeling of being on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall into the void.

Jensen’s thoughts drift back to the chill November afternoon in his agent Benny’s offices last year and the countless arguments he repeatedly used to convince Jensen to delay his big reveal, to come out publicly as bi-sexual.

“Jensen, brother, you know I’m gonna support you all the way. But chèr, I need you to think very carefully about the impact this can have on your career.  You could lose fans over something this big. And you know what that means. Fans equal viewership, Jensen! This has the potential to prove catastrophic,” Benny had said, using his large southern hands as if to show the magnitude of the catastrophe. “You’ve worked too hard for the past twelve years for this.”

“Look, I know you are worried,” Jensen had tried to explain, “but my fan base is extremely loyal, Benny. You know they have been responsible for a lot of my awards and nominations. Hell, their constant approval rating has kept the show on air far longer than even the show runners thought possible! Do you really think they’d abandon me over this?

Benny Lafitte had been his agent for the past fifteen years and had guided his career with efficiency. The swarthy Cajun had a sharp intellect and a killer business acumen which allowed him to slash a path through the monsters in the purgatory that was Hollywood, culling down the manipulators and money-hungry opportunists to get Jensen the best and most-suited roles for his career.

What Benny hadn’t understood, however, was why Jensen wanted to make the announcement.

“Explain this to me like I’m five years old again? You have been in a stable, long term, _heterosexual_ relationship with Lisa for three years. Monogamous relationship, I might add. I just don’t see why you feel the need to do this now, especially when there doesn’t seem to be any pressing personal reason for you to do so.”

“I just… it’s actually for the fans, in a way.”

“Here, look at this. This is my twitter since the election, Benny! The amount of anxiety and fear across all social media! ‘Specially my fans. Do you know, nearly 70% of them identify as part of LGBTQ. And the rest are open supporters to the cause. That’s 100% of my current fandom that is pouring its heart out in social media against Trump.”

“I just feel… I feel helpless, man. There is nothing I can do about this dumb situation, obviously. But I’ve let too many things scare me away from this till now. My career, my family. But I realised something. These…fans have become family too. You’ve seen them. Hell you’ve heard their stories haven’t you? They take strength from the show, from us. This is the only thing I can do, be a strong role model, by not hiding who I am anymore!”

Benny had looked at him for a long moment, then nodded his head in agreement. “Okay, brother. But this has to be planned very carefully. ‘Cause, I gotta tell ya, this has the making of the best or the worst thing you can do… we gotta make sure it’s the first, yeah?”

Jensen remembers the relief he had felt, as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders when Benny went on to outline how they would manage this announcement.

The first thing Jensen had done before he went public was have a long conversation with Lisa over dinner, explaining his sexuality, as well his motives for making the decision to come out publicly. That dinner hadn’t gone as anticipated, though. Lisa, an actor herself, felt it would harm her “image” of the sexy femme fatale to be seen to be dating an openly bi-sexual man. Having been in the industry and facing similar fears himself (one of the main reasons he wasn’t out, the second big one being his conservative dad), he had sort of understood her point of view. While Lisa had been reluctant to hand him his walking papers permanently just yet, she did request that they take a break for a while, giving her time and space to process the news.  

Despite the fact that he gets why she felt insecure, he had hoped that she would understand, considering how long they had been together, and it hurt that the support he had expected and hoped for was not going to materialise.

The high pitched ping of the seat-belt sign coming on pulls him back from his reverie. He has spent a good part of the second leg of his journey from London to New Delhi lost in his thoughts. Jensen has been on long flights before, obviously, travelling as far as Australia a couple of times for conventions of his show, but this journey is the longest he has attempted yet. After landing in New Delhi, he still has a four hour layover, then a flight to Chandigarh, followed by a four hour car journey to his final destination. All in all, Jensen will have travelled for nearly 36 hours.

_Thank God for first class_ , Jensen thinks to himself in a rare moment of appreciation for the small luxuries wealth and fame allowed.

He can only imagine what a nightmare the journey would be in coach. Any journo that follows him here would have to be one dedicated bastard, Jensen scoffs to himself.

The remoteness of the place isn’t exaggerated. Despite the fact that the city has a small airport, there are no commercial or charter flights to Shimla since 2012, the nearest airport being Chandigarh. After the flight, there is the option of a rental car or a quaint train journey on a historic narrow-gauge track constructed by the British who moved their administration to the city during the insufferable Indian summer months and declared it to be the summer capital of the British Raj.

Again, Jensen feels a small thrill shudder through him, causing goosebumps on his arms.

He listens to the landing announcements as he packs up his belongings into his messenger bag, making sure all the pages of the script he had been studying in preparation were safely tucked away in its folder. While he is looking forward to the next few months of his life with some trepidation as well as anticipation, one thing is certain: He can hardly wait for this long-ass journey to be over!

 

Misha…waited.

He has been waiting for the past two decades, just under half his lifetime.

He’d be obliged if the universe told him what he was supposed to be waiting _for_ , though, instead of this constant thrum of anticipation in his heart, almost like a second heartbeat. Some days it feels as if the weight of it anchors him to this place, captivating him as effectively as iron bars on prison cells.

Sometimes, he curses the quirk of fate (or Vicki, when he is feeling especially frustrated) that resulted in his chance, totally unplanned visit to Shimla, India. But there it is. Random happenstances that result in lifelong consequences.

In all honesty, Misha would probably have ended up in India somewhere along his life. The spirituality of eastern philosophy and the Buddhist teachings of dhamma have fascinated him from a young age. But as circumstances stand, the catalyst for his journey was his ex-girlfriend, Vicki, who dragged him and his best friend Darius to accompany her to India. Apparently she had heard about an orphanage in need, and been so moved that she raised twenty thousand dollars in donations and she wanted to go and work with the children, as well.

Vicki… Vicki is a force of nature that is not be argued with, even if Misha hadn’t been going through a period of disillusionment with his chosen career in politics. Suffice it to say, he found himself working at the orphanage alongside Vicki and Darius for about two months. It was Darius who suggested, totally spur of the moment, to backpack across the northern part of India. They made their way through monasteries in Nepal and ashrams in Rishikesh, before they came to Shimla to relax and unwind before heading back home.

Or so they thought.

Misha still remembers the sensation of peace that washed over him as soon as they reached Shimla. He had felt as if he had arrived where he was meant to be, like coming home after a long vacation. He had been struck by a sense of belonging such as he had never felt before in his life. So much so that he chose to stay on, instead of heading home with his friends.

However, the romantic notion of being in Shimla just because it called to something in him faded very quickly when faced with surviving in a foreign land where the people didn’t understand his accent, and that was just those that spoke English. After about six months of doing odd jobs, washing dishes and freelancing as a tour guide and such, he had been ready to give up. He was tired of looking for a decent job; he had no direction or purpose apart from a feeling of being where he was meant to be. He was tired of being lonely. He was just… tired. He nearly gave up a few times. Thank God for Vicki and Darius, who listened (mostly) patiently to his sometimes tearful, sometimes angry rants that he had had enough. That he was just waiting until he made enough money to buy a plane ticket back home.

He smiles wistfully to himself as he remembers the drunken conversation nearly a year after he had been here. Vicki, tired of his moaning every few days, convinced Darius to pitch in to buy him a ticket back to America. With disastrous consequences.

It turned out to be the worst year of his life. The entire time he was back in USA, he felt disconnected, disjointed. The constant restlessness of unfinished business kept him on edge, unable to sleep or eat. Not even his best friends could pull him out of the near depression. He wasn’t able to hold onto to a job, when he found one, and no amount of weed and alcohol was enough to calm the itch under his skin.

Not until he came back to Shimla.

The problem is Misha still has no clue why he can’t leave this tiny city in the Himalayas. He has tried. Multiple times. Each time he’s been more miserable, finding himself compelled to make his way back from whichever corner of the world he fled to.

He looks around at the valley that is his adopted home. The winter chill is easing up with the last days of February but the early morning mist still clings to the green slopes. As always, the sheer magnitude of its beauty takes his breath away.

In his musing, he hasn’t realised that he is at the end of his morning run circuit until he turns onto the sloped driveway leading down to his house.

He wonders what set off the memories this time.

Over the past decade he has gotten so used to the constant sense of waiting that he is mostly able to push it to the back of his mind. Still, sometimes it gets triggered and brought to the forefront, sitting heavy on his mind and heart, leaving him with a strangely familiar yearning that lasts for a few days. It can be something as simple as the sunlight hitting the valley at just the right angle, or a particular shade of green.

The strongest had been that one time when the town had a History Week celebration, and local school kids had put up a street play of how Shimla became the Summer Capital of the British Raj. The army uniforms in the street that day had triggered an anxiety attack so strong that it had left him feeling melancholy for nearly two weeks.

He tries to recollect what might have triggered the longing on his morning run, but can’t come up with any particular instance, so he decides to just go with it, allowing the comfort of his routine to soothe him.

He checks his pulse as he puts the chai tea to brew before turning on the meditation track on his music system. As the soft strings of sitar float through the house, Misha settles onto the floor in the lotus pose to begin his _pranayam_ routine, an ancient Indian practice of controlling your breath, inhaling deeply and then forcefully exhaling the breath through the nostrils. After ten minutes of the breathing exercise, he settles himself into the relaxing _savasana_ , or corpse pose.

By the time he is done, thirty minutes later, the asanas have helped to calm his pulse back to his normal resting rate, as well as soothe the longing awakened during the morning run.

 

With nothing else to occupy his mind on the shorter domestic flight from New Delhi to Chandigarh, Jensen finds his thoughts drawn back to the events that led to him travelling to the other end of the globe.

Once it became clear that the paparazzi would be incessant in their hounding following the announcement as well as Jensen’s perceived cooling off with Lisa, Benny went into problem solver mode.

“You know Ben Edlund? The director? He’s collaborating on a LGBTQ project with script writer Robbie Thompson. They’ve approached me about a leading role for you.”

“An LGBT film? You don’t think people will see my coming out as a publicity stunt for this role?”

“We’ll handle it delicately, Jensen, don’t worry. Plus, you’re their first choice. They have a selection of actors, but we’re the first they’ve approached.”

“It does sound interesting. I mean, Ben Edlund! WOW! I would love working with him, you know!” Jensen was excited, but still reluctant.

“There’s another plus point, as well,” Benny said, “The movie is meant to be shot on location in Shimla. That’s a really small city at the foothills of the Himalayas in India. You’d be gone for almost six months.”

“Six months? But...what about the show? They’re not gonna let me go for that long!”

“Look, that’s my job,” Benny had reassured him, “I’ll handle it.”

“Okay, if you can convince the network, then accept the role.”

Six months in a remote corner of the world where journalists and paparazzi couldn’t track him easily sounded pretty fucking good.

Fortunately, as Jensen had already predicted, the emotional outpouring of support from the fans  had solidified the already strong ratings for his TV show so Benny was easily able to negotiate a break without any problem.

The network had not been happy to run the remaining season without one of the main leads, but the viewership numbers his fan following brought in, along with this seniority on the show, meant that Benny could pretty much dictate his terms when needed. It helped that his best friend and the other main lead, Jared Padalecki, had been fully on board with the idea.

It took a couple of episodes for the writers to wind up the current story arc and write him out for the rest of the season, putting his character in a coma as a cliffhanger in the mid-season finale. He would pick up where he left off when he rejoined the series after filming on the movie was complete.

The wrap for the filming coincided perfectly with the schedule for the film, which was planned to commence in mid-March, when the weather conditions apparently became milder and suitable for outdoor shoots.

Having wrapped up his last shoot in the third week of February, Jensen felt it would do well to arrive a bit earlier than when he was actually required for the film.

When he had looked at pictures of Shimla, he had felt a strange longing, almost like being home-sick. Something about the place tugged at his heart, and he couldn’t wait to get there. Of course, having heard horror stories of the dreaded Delhi-Belly from friends who had visited India, he felt it would be practical to arrive early, and acclimatise himself to the environment before he got into the thick of shooting schedules and location shoots.

He knows that film shoots are vastly different from the easy camaraderie and relaxed atmosphere of the studios where they shoot the TV series, and that the next few months of his life are going to be a mix of travelling to various location shoots (aimed at capturing the breath-taking visuals the small hill-station provided), and being a slave to the whims of natural lighting and weather.

He finds himself looking forward to getting a couple of weeks of quiet vacation time in this sleepy tourist town, allowing the serenity of the tiny Himalayan city to soothe the mental and emotional turmoil of the past months, and putting him in a refreshed mindset to tackle the busy months ahead.

Thanks to Benny’s usual efficient organisation, Jensen is booked for a luxurious stay for the first ten days at the Radisson in Shimla, before he joins the rest of the film crew on the fifteenth of March. The producer, Gabriel Novak, has insisted on the on-location shooting and arranged for accommodation on his vast property just outside of Shimla. He owns individual cabins and cottages that he apparently rents to tourists during the peak summer and skiing seasons, and Jensen assumes it is his main source of income when he isn’t playing Mr. Producer.

Jensen is definitely looking forward to letting his hair down in near anonymity, a refreshing change for a fairly well-known actor in LA.

Misha walks into his bookstore, Random Facts, on the main road of the town, the Mall, at eleven a.m., feeling refreshed from the morning’s meditation and ready to face the day. His assistant, Chad, has opened the store an hour earlier, and is organising the glass cases where Misha allows local artisans to display their handicrafts. Misha knows the local souvenir shops and handicrafts stores carry similar items at hugely marked up rates, which rarely find their way into the artists’ pockets. His purpose is not so much to make a profit from the sales as to allow the artists to showcase and sell their work without being fleeced, as well as promote their talent by sending clients who are interested in commissioning them for custom artwork. It also helps that this generates interest in his clientele and usually results in the purchase of DIY instructional books and materials for the displayed art.

“Hey, Bossman, how’s it hanging?” The lanky, mullet-haired man flicks off a two fingered salute as Misha enters.

“Good Morning, Chad. How are you?” Misha smiles at the scruffy-looking youngster. He points his chin at the display that Chad is arranging. “Who are we showing today?”

“Ah, the old man sent a young couple in yesterday from down in Kasauli. He does etchings on metal, she specialises in tie and dye fabrics. He called yesterday after you left for the day.” Chad looks over his shoulder, continuing to drape the display stand with the brightly coloured material, presumably the tie and dye samples from the artist.

“Gabe called?” Misha is surprised. The old man never bothers with a phone call these days. He just sends a scribbled note with the artist he is sending.

Gabriel Novak is one of the oldest expats living in Shimla, since before the independence. He had been a young man during the last days of the British Raj, and like many of the British civilians, his family chose to stay back after India gained independence. He is an eccentric man who owns a large ranch like property on the outskirts of Shimla. His reputation as the benevolent English _saheb_ brings many local artisans to his door, hoping he will put in a word recommending them to tourists staying at his property. Sometimes, if he finds someone exceptionally talented (or usually someone whose story touches his too-soft heart), he sends them off to Misha to display their work, hoping that the central location of the store results in quicker sales and more exposure for the artist.

“Yeah, I was surprised too,” Chad agrees. “But he did want to speak to you. Requested if you could call him today.”

Misha browses through the display samples that are sitting on the counter waiting to be displayed. The metal is painstakingly etched with intricate floral designs and Indian motifs. He can see some quick-sell items like platters, trays and even some wine goblets.

“Yeah, I’ll call him and check. Probably getting lonely again, or low on lollipops.” Misha muses.

“Man, I don’t know how he can get away with eating the amount of candy he does. I’d have thought the diabetes epidemic would have caught up to him now.” Chad shakes his head, still continuing to fuss with the fabrics. “We really need to get something to help with displaying fabrics, the hangers were fine for the shawls we did the other week, but this stuff is so intricately patterned it really should be spread out for the full effect.”

“Maybe we can check with the artist, see what she recommends, and then we can order it or get it made,” Misha agrees. “Any calls from the hotels for today?” he asks.

Misha freelances as a tour guide for international tourists, considering he is as fluent in Spanish and French as in English. He also speaks Hindi flawlessly which makes it easier for the tourists to bargain hunt the local shopping scene. Most of the five star hotels carry his details and make bookings for tourists requiring services.

“Nah, nothing for the next few days. Though that’s normal with the tourist season ending in less than two weeks.”  

Misha nods. “At least the guide business is a good buffer for the bookstore. Most tourists these days carry their reading materials in their phones and tablets. No one wants to buy actual books for entertainment anymore.”

Personally he still prefers the printed word - the feel of turning the pages physically, the smell of the paper - but he can see the convenience of the electronic books for travellers.

The bookstore had been an idea that had stemmed for his early days in Shimla, when he hardly spoke the local lingo and had no means of communicating with more than a handful of people who spoke english. Gabe Novak had been a life saver then and Misha had spent hours in his exhaustive library which he would otherwise have whiled away in despondency.  If not for the old Britisher’s generosity in allowing Misha to crash at the sizeable Novak Estate as well as his invaluable encouragement to follow his heart, Misha may very well have returned home, despite how miserable he had been when he did attempt it once.

He checks the time on the antique clock that was a gift from Gabe when he opened the store. It used to hang in the Britisher’s library. The intricately carved wings framing the clock face have always fascinated Misha and he finds it comforting to wind it every day. When he lived at Gabe’s, the action soothed some part of him, a balm to the urgent longing in his heart, which had been too strong and fresh in those days. Since its going on midday, he knows Gabe will be back from his mid morning walk in the estate garden.

Misha decides to phone Gabe first to let him know he’ll be in to see him later that afternoon. It will mean supper with the old man, which is usually a jovial affair. Gabriel is an excellent storyteller, and Misha is entertained by his recollections of his time growing up.

“Hello, Novak residence, how can I help you?” The phone is answered by Krishna, Gabriel’s housekeeper-butler-companion for many years.

“Hi Krishna, it’s Misha. How are you?”

“I am well, thank you, Mr. Misha. How are you?” Despite having known Misha since he was a desperate twenty year old, the old butler insists on addressing him formally, and Misha has given up correcting him.

Misha smiles at the crisp Indo-British accent. “I’m good. How’s Gabe? I got his message.”

“Ah yes, he has been looking forward to hearing from you. I’ll get him for you, please hold on.” Misha listens to the background noise as the butler carries the phone over to wherever Gabe is, which at this time would be either the library or the garden.

“Mr. Misha on the line for you, Master Gabriel.” Misha hears Krishna announce formally.

“Hey hey, you blue eyed vagabond! Finally found the time to look up the old man, eh?” Gabriel sounds pleased, and Misha can almost picture the twinkle in his wise brown eyes.

“How are you, Gabe?” Misha says fondly.

“Ah, can’t complain, old chap, at least I’m breathing, which is more than a lot of my friends are doing these days.” Gabe chuckles. “What about you?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

After a few pleasantries which involve Gabriel’s colourful description of his knee ailments and his recent gardening victories, Misha catches him up on the bookstore in general, then asks, “So, Chad said you wanted to speak to me?”

“Oh yes! Are you going to drive out? I have some news, and it may result in some business your way as well, if you like.”

“Sure, you want me to come out tonight?” Misha asks.

“Nah, you’ll just rush back if you come tonight, and I’m a selfish old codger. Come on Friday, that way you can stay the weekend. Unless.. it will interrupt your social life?” He asks slyly, fishing, Misha knows from past experience, for interesting tidbits.

“Sure, Gabe, I’ll have to disappoint the hundreds of people waiting at my doorstep for a glimpse of this fine ass, but for you, I’d give that up in a heartbeat.” Misha snarks. “Plus, I need to talk to you as well, about, you know…”

Gabe is perhaps the only person, besides Vicki and Darius, who knows the real reason Misha continues living here. His voice is full of concern when he asks seriously, “Mish, is everything okay? You haven’t needed to talk about that for a long time now. What happened?”

“Nothing’s happened, Gabe. Well nothing specific, but I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

They exchange some banter over Gabe asking Misha to bring in his favourite orange candy and they said their goodbyes, before hanging up.

Misha is looking forward to a relaxing time at Gabe’s. Being regaled by the old man’s tales, not to mention sampling the delicious food. Krishna makes a special effort when Misha visits, fussing over him like a mother hen, and complaining that Gabe is no fun to cook for since he is becoming fussy in his old age. Misha likes to cook, but tends to avoid elaborate meals, because really, where’s the fun in cooking for one?

Yes, Misha thinks, a weekend with Gabe is just what he needs to alleviate the longing that has amped up since his morning run.

 

Jensen lands at Chandigarh in the late afternoon, thankful to finally be done with being cramped in the enclosed atmosphere of the plane. He texts Benny and his family to let them know he has arrived safely while he waits for his luggage at the carousel. He had opted to only carry enough for his two week vacation, while Benny arranged to ship his other belongings direct to Gabriel Novak’s property. After the constant hustle and bustle of large international terminals, he finds the small Chandigarh airport quaint and charming, with smiling staff welcoming the arrivals and very little walking from the plane to the exit. Benny has hired a car and driver for the duration of his stay at the hotel, so Jensen is being picked up from the airport for the drive up to Shimla. He finds his chauffeur holding a name card at the arrival gate, and quickly follows him to the waiting car.

The first thing that hits Jensen, as he exits the airport, is _the noise_.

The constant buzz of the second largest population in the world is made up of people chattering loudly mixed with the roar of vehicles of all shapes continuously honking their horns. As they drive through the city, he finds himself looking around in curiosity, mainly at the seemingly uncontrolled chaos that is Indian traffic. Every type of vehicle invented by man graces the roads at the same time, from horse and bullock carts, bicycles and fancy cars to large transport trucks. The sheer number of scooters and motorcycles on the road is staggering, some with an entire family of five on the same two-wheeler!

Jensen spots numerous stray dogs and cows lounging in the middle of the road as if they own the place, and the drivers and scooter riders navigate around them with practiced ease. There is even a gaily painted elephant ambling majestically along the road, with the rider making it stop at various intervals to accept offerings of money and fruit from the passing crowd.

_I’m going to have dinner plates for eyes_ , he thinks, judging by his reaction in the first fifteen minutes of his introduction to the country. It is surprising to feel this sense of wonderment he has only ever experienced as a kid, which diminished as he grew up.

Somewhere along the road to stardom and fame, his mind forgot the child like curiosity and excitement for something new and he learnt to portray a calm, reserved persona to avoid unwelcome interactions amid constant recognition by fans.

It is when he notices his fifth Mercedes Benz on the road that something clicks in his head. Isn’t India supposed to be a developing country, with rampant poverty? That is his impression from the relatively little he knows of the place, although he admits that most of his information comes from having seen award winning photographs in glossy magazines and art galleries, showing scantily clad, dust-ridden children, who still seem to have dazzlingly brilliant smiles and sparkling eyes.

He asks this question to his chauffeur, Deepak, who thankfully speaks English.

“No, Sir, Mr. Ackles!” He says, “Chandigarh actually has the highest number of Mercedes sales in the country!”

“But we never hear about India that way back home,” Jensen exclaims. “What about all the poverty that people keep hearing about? All the starving children and homeless people?”

Deepak nods, “That is true, Sir. It is also an aspect of India. Here, you will see both sides of the coin. On the one hand you have filthy rich industrialists who have their imported cars and charter jets, and on the other the people you are talking about. Although a large part of India is made up of people in the middle, like me, for example, who are called “middle class” - we are not rich enough for the fancy cars, yet not so poor as to starve. We live mostly comfortably out of the international media spotlight, who generally gravitate towards the sensationalism provided by the big spenders like the Ambanis, or the publicity they can garner from showing the ragged and naked children to highlight their charitable intentions. No one is interested in the mundane…the ordinary.”

“Ok, first of all, wow! Your English is better than mine, man! You are very good with words,” Jensen says, surprised at his eloquence and command over the language.

“Mr. Ackles, I studied mechanical engineering. I was the top of my class in school!” Deepak says proudly.

“So how come… ?”

He isn’t sure how to ask what Deepak is doing chauffeuring an actor without it sounding condescending or belittling, but the driver seems to understand what he means.

He looks at Jensen in the rear view mirror knowingly, “You want to ask why I am working as a driver, no?”

Jensen nods.

“It is life, Sir. Sometimes, you can’t get the job you want or the life you want. I live in Shimla with my elderly mother. I am the only son, you see, she has no one else to look after her in her old age, and there are not many jobs for mechanical engineers in a small place like Shimla. If I wanted a job like that I would have to move to a bigger place, maybe Chandigarh, maybe further, like New Delhi. I can’t leave my mother on her own.” He shrugs. “Maybe, someday…”

The simple manner in which the driver accepts his life, his future, surprises Jensen. Not least because Deepak seems content, happy even. He speaks without even a hint of regret or resentment in his voice.

Jensen feels humbled to a certain extent, and as he settles down in his seat, he can’t help but think it’s going to be an interesting six months!

“So, where’s my favourite sex historian these days?” Gabriel squints against the bright sun as he looks up at Misha.

Saturday morning finds the two friends walking side by side on the garden path behind the main house, Misha accompanying Gabe on his morning walk.

“Vicki’s gone down to Rishikesh for research. For her new book. Something about sexual therapy in modern times, and there’s a chapter about the benefits of yoga. I think she’s staying at this _ashram_ on the banks of the Ganges.” Misha smiles at Gabe. “She’ll be back next month, I think.”

“Ah, I miss her. She is a fine woman, that one.” He wags a finger at Misha. “You should consider yourself lucky she loves you.”

Misha nods, “I am. I do. I mean, I love her too.” He can’t help but chuckle. “We were high school sweethearts you know.”

“Yes, you told me that. If I remember correctly, you proposed to her when you were sixteen, didn’t you?” There’s little that Gabe doesn’t know about his life, Misha thinks. He has been the shoulder Misha cries on, consistently. Him and Vicki, after she decided her best friend needed her and moved to Chandigarh five years ago.

“Yeah,” Misha agrees, squinting into the distance. He can almost see the day his younger self awkwardly proposed to Vicki. “She turned me down. Said she didn’t believe in the institution of marriage because gay people couldn’t marry. She was so strong in her ideals, even then. It was one of the things that drew me to her. If she believed in something, she did it. Damn what others thought about it.”

“She is a unique one, I’ll grant you,” Gabe agrees.

They stroll along in silence for a while, enjoying the serenity of the garden and the surrounding valley. When they turn back at the end of the path, Misha clears his throat, gathering his thoughts before speaking.

“Uh.. about..about the other thing. It’s… I think it’s getting stronger, more present. I mean, these past few days, it’s been harder to push it down.”

Gabe tilts his head in concentration, “Stronger? Hmm…” He looks away thoughtfully, His eyes gleam with a strangely gleeful look, before he schools his expression and looks back. “Do you remember if anything happened to cause that? Anything specific, I mean?”

Misha shakes his head, “Not really, I was coming back from my morning run the other day and I just noticed that the feeling, that longing, had steadily increased. I can’t think of anything that triggered it. Not as bad as History Week though.”

“Okay.” Gabe nods. “Let me know if that changes.”

They walk on until they reach the steps leading up to the open verandah. Gabe leans on his cane before climbing the first step, looking back at Misha. “I mean it. You tell me immediately if anything is different,” he says fiercely.

The expression in the old man’s eyes startles Misha, shining with the knowledge of something that seems to be just out of his own grasp.

He stammers a hesitant, “Uh, sure. Sure, but what…?”

Misha’s question is lost as Krishna comes out onto the veranda with the English service tea tray, placing it on the outdoor table before helping Gabe up the stairs and to the wicker chairs to take a seat.

Misha feels a shiver run down his spine, and looks back towards the valley, as if the answer to this riddle lies there. He shakes his head to clear it and joins Gabe.

At the table, Misha busies himself with pouring the tea from the vintage china teapot. He adds three spoonfuls of sugar to Gabriel’s cup with a spot of milk. As he holds it out to the old British expat, he finds Gabe looking at him with shrewd calculation and can practically hear the gears whirring in his head.

“What is it?” he asks self-consciously.

Gabriel shakes his head as he takes the cup from the younger man. “Nothing, nothing.” He smiles impishly as he looks down into his cup, as if they share a secret joke.

He waits until Misha has poured his own cup, added a teaspoon of honey and a slice of lemon and is taking his first sip.

“I’m producing a film,” he declares.

Then he waits for the choking coughs to subside, as a red faced Misha frantically dabs at the neat pattern of golden tea sprayed on his shirt. _Perfect timing_ , he congratulates his inner trickster.

Misha glares at Gabe, shock and annoyance warring for dominance on his face. “WHAT?!!” he almost shouts, then he takes a deep breath and asks again, in a slightly lower but none the less incredulous tone. “What are you talking about?”

“I, little old me, I am making a film. Written and Produced by. On the silver screen. Or technicolor screen now.” Gabriel gestures with his hands as if he can see the letters written in the air in front of him.

“Why? No really, why?” Misha asks, perplexed at this turn of events.

“Meh…” Gabe elongates the word, then hesitantly questions, “Bucket list?”

“ _Bucket List_ ? You… _you_ have a bucket list? And _making a movie_ is on that list?” Misha can't stop his voice from getting louder with each question.

“Oh, come on, old chap, I’m rich. I’m eccentric. I’m... English. I can have a list of stuff I want to do before I kick the bucket, can’t I? So I’m making a film. Here. In Shimla.”

Misha leans back in his chair scratching the hair at his temple. “Wow! I don’t recall you being remotely interested in film or television, like, ever. And now you want to make a movie. That’s…I don’t even know what that is, actually.”

“Eh, I like mixing it up. Shock and awe, you know. It’s the only entertainment I get these days.”

“But, Gabe…you…how are you…” Misha tries various questions, finally settles for, “Do you even know how?”

“Oh come on, Misha. I don’t mean I am going about with a video recorder filming on my own. I am merely financing the movie, there are real Hollywood types who are making it. I only insisted they make it here, in Shimla.”

“And they agreed?”

“I have connections. I want to tell a story, my story, well, the story I have been witness to, if you like. I have the money. Ergo, Hollywood. I would have gone Bollywood, because, well, young nubile things dancing in scanty clothes on my property...” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “But the subject matter is…shall we say, controversial, at least in India. Hence, Hollywood.”

“Wow, OK, so… wait, is that what you meant by business opportunity? On the phone?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the “p”.

“I don’t see how I…wait! No! No way. I am NOT acting in your movie!!”

“Oh, relax. Don’t get your pretty panties in a twist. I am not asking you to act. I merely meant that you can be on permanent retainer as a location scout. As well as the official guide for the cast and crew.”

“Gabe, you know I can’t stand the movie types.” He shudders as he thinks of some of the horrifying experiences he’s had with Bollywood stars and their tantrums. “All their false smiles, and ego-polishing, and…don’t even get me started on their entourage!”

“Look, Misha, I know. But consider this, you know this place, inside and out. You speak the local language. The director is going to need someone with that kind of knowledge. I can’t think of anybody better to do this. Look, okay, at least give it a shot. The director, Ben Edlund, is coming here this Friday, a week before the rest of the crew arrives. Why don’t you come out again next weekend and meet him? Then if you feel you want no part of this, I’ll accept it.”

“Gabe…” Misha knows the man is right, but he really, really wants to avoid that crowd. At the same time, Gabriel is looking at him with such puppy dog eyes, and Misha also knows he owes the man too much to really refuse.

“Ok, I’ll come out next weekend. But I am NOT making any promises!” Misha looks at him sternly as he points a finger to make his point.

“That’s all I ask,” Gabriel Novak says smugly, a secretive smile on his face.

The drive from Chandigarh to Shimla passes relatively easily, with Jensen asking questions about some things and Deepak pointing out interesting tidbits about the places they pass. The young Indian continues to amaze Jensen, as does the history steeped in this country. It co-exists comfortably with the present modern India at practically every corner.

They stop at a little roadside tea stall, which Deepak claims has the best masala chai tea on this highway. Jensen is wary, looking at the condition of the tiny tea stall and doubting the hygiene of the place. He has been warned by the countless horror stories of stomach ailments suffered by numerous friends and acquaintances about eating and drinking at such places. But Deepak negotiates with the tea vendor to put on a fresh pot for a _bakshish_ of ten rupees, which boosts Jensen’s confidence to try the tea, especially with the warm aromas wafting from the boiling tea beckoning him and the chill of the evening air settling around him.

As they sip the sweet aromatic tea served in little glass cups spiced with ginger, cardamom and mint leaves, he spots some children nearby gathering dry sticks, he assumes for firewood. They stare at him unabashed. He smiles and waves at them, and feels warmth creep into his heart when they wave back and then run away, giggling.

Deepak watches this interaction, then looks at him shyly. “Sir, can I say something?”

_Here we go_. Jensen knows it is cynical of him, but he is too used to people who want something from him, either due to his fame or his money.

“Sure,” he says guardedly.

“You are going to stay here for long, no?” When Jensen nods, Deepak continues. “India.. she is very loving. You know, we Indians, we say Mother India for our country, and she is like that. She will show you so much love, if you come to her as a son. Let yourself see her truly, not like a tourist from the antiseptic balconies of resorts and five star hotels, but from within the throng of her masses. Interact with her children, like this _chaiwalla_ , um.. tea seller, for example. We could have stopped at a nice expensive restaurant, all clean and air conditioned, but then you would never have felt the joy that the warmth of this tea cup brings to your hands, as you stand out here in the cold. Or seen those kids, and connected with their happiness. This is the true India, Mr. Ackles. If you let her, she will become a part of you that you will carry with you when you go, and she will keep a part of you here forever, safe and waiting, for the next time you return.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jensen smiles as he finishes his tea. Deepak has a strange ability to utter profound truths in the simplest of ways.

Deepak pays the tea vendor, _chaiwalla_ , Jensen thinks to himself, and as they return to the car Jensen opens the front passenger door instead of the rear one. Deepak looks at him in astonishment, but Jensen speaks before he can ask or object.

“Not from the antiseptic back seat either, Deepak!” Jensen declares gleefully.

The remaining two hours of the drive to Shimla pass quickly enough, random topics of conversation that include, among other things, Deepak’s insightful commentary on Trump, which has Jensen laughing out loud for a solid five minutes. The route is undoubtedly scenic, but evening is fast becoming night, and not much of the landscape is visible. Deepak randomly points out the small towns they pass, telling him about some of the specialities of the area and the activities and must-see destinations.

By the time they reach the hotel close to 9 p.m., Jensen is ready to temporarily retire from humanity. He practically zombie-walks his way from the car to his room, thanking Deepak and leaving him to organise with the hotel staff about getting his luggage up to his room.

When Jensen wakes the next day, it is well past mid-morning, his body making up for the lack of comfort and interrupted sleep during his long journey. The much-needed rest leaves him refreshed and alert, and he is looking forward to seeing his temporary home for the first time in daylight. He calls down for room service and orders a Radisson special breakfast with eggs, sausage, french toast, and coffee. While he waits, he takes the opportunity to explore the suite for the first time.

The suite is a spacious room divided by a carved wooden privacy screen. The king size bed is situated in the centre of the larger portion, hidden from view from the front door as well as the seating area overlooking the tall glass windows, which holds two plush sofas and a coffee table. The sofas are tastefully decorated in vibrant colours with Indian design motifs. A spacious desk with an office chair occupies one corner and a kitchenette area is located on the left, containing tea and coffee supplies, a personal coffee maker, a mini bar, and a counter with an overflowing fruit bowl. A small alcove to the right of the bed leads to a spacious bathroom with a hot tub that Jensen decides to make use of during his stay there.

The tall floor-to-ceiling windows of the sitting area overlook the valley below, and walking over to the window, Jensen finds himself gasping in wonder at the sheer force of beauty that nature has bestowed on this tiny little corner of the earth. Far off into the distance, he can make out the snowy peaks of the Himalayas against the bright blue backdrop of the sky. Jensen stands entranced, suddenly feeling a pang of nostalgia, such as one feels when visiting a childhood home after many years. It is strange, considering he has never visited this place, or any like it, for that matter. He has no reason to feel this way, but something about this place carves out familiar corners in his heart and mind, a sense of inexplicable _deja vu_.

The knock on the door startles him. Shaking his head, he opens the door and directs the room service waiter to place the breakfast tray on the coffee table. The smell of the delicious food and the coffee causes his stomach to rumble, reminding him that he had been too tired to eat anything the night before. He quickly tips the waiter and pours himself a cup of coffee before digging in.

As he eats, he browses through the guide book provided by the hotel to see if anything in particular interests him. _Hmm, a historic golf course from the British era not too far from Shimla_. Jensen will have to find a fellow golf enthusiast amongst the film crew once they begin filming. There are some recommended trekking routes and historic locations which catch his eye, but being unfamiliar with the area he decides to consult Deepak to see what he recommends before formulating his schedule for the next few days.

After eating, Jensen looks at the time and since it is nearly eleven, he decides to call Deepak to pick him up in an hour. Instructing the concierge at reception to call the driver, he has a luxurious hot shower, dressing in his comfortable jeans and his favourite hunter green henley, layering it with a leather jacket and a multi-colored knitted scarf. From what Deepak told him, despite the current mild weather, the temperature can drop quite suddenly towards the evening. By the time he is ready, the concierge calls to let him know the car is ready, so he picks up his sunglasses, wallet and room key card before locking the door and making his way downstairs.

“Good Morning, Mr. Ackles!” Deepak waves to get his attention and greets him at the lobby. “I hope you had a good rest.”

“Yes, thanks, Deepak. I’m feeling quite refreshed now.” Jensen says, remembering something that had occurred to him the previous evening, but he had neglected to mention.  “Also, please, call me Jensen, when you say Mr. Ackles it feels like you are talking to my dad!”

“Of course, Mr. Ack… sorry, Sir! Jensen.” Deepak stumbles, obviously not used to being invited to call a customer by their first name.

“So, where would you like to go, Sir?”

“I’m not too sure, actually,” Jensen says. “There are a couple of things I saw in the guide book at the hotel, but none of them really jumped out at me as something I want to do today. Why don’t you suggest something? What do you think would be a good introduction to your city, huh?”

“Okay, definitely!” Deepak nods enthusiastically. Although Jensen can’t make out whether he meant to nod a yes or shake his head as no, actually it is more of a nod-cum-shake, reminding Jensen of Peter Sellers in _The Party_.

“We should definitely start at the heart of Shimla, then. The Mall,” Deepak proudly declares. He mispronounced it the M-A-A-L.

“Deepak, no offence, but I have been to plenty of malls. I don’t think you want to start there.” No doubt a mall is a big thing for a small town like Shimla, but not necessarily what Jensen wants to visit as an attraction.

“Oh no, Jensen, you misunderstand me!” Deepak exclaims. “The Mall is not like your shopping centres in America. It is the main road and shopping district with many restaurants and small artefact shops. From there, you go on to the Ridge at the ‘Scandal Point’. It is famously mentioned in many Rudyard Kipling stories. The Ridge is a large open space and you can see an excellent view of the mountain ranges. You can also see the famous Christ Church from there, which is the second oldest church in India, built by the British around 1850. If you like, you can pick up some food from the Mall road and we can stop at one of the look out points where you can eat lunch and…”

Jensen holds up a hand to stop the young man’s tirade. “Okay, okay! Hold your horses! Lead the way, Deepak, I am in your hands for the day.”

Deepak’s enthusiasm is infectious and Jensen finds himself looking forward to the day ahead.

As they walk along the Mall, Jensen allows himself to absorb the cacophony of sounds that he is fast recognising as an almost physical presence in India. The road is full of people, locals and tourists alike, talking and excitedly pointing out the sites to their companions. Street hawkers and roadside vendors call out to the passers by to attract sales, bargain hunters haggle with them over prices. The air is crisp and clean, since the road is closed to all motor vehicle traffic except emergency vehicles. The other thing that Jensen notices is the riot of colours. The colourful dress of not just the women but the men as well, creates a panorama of brightness in the snowy surroundings.

“Hey, Deepak?” Jensen asks curiously. “Do you dress like this as well?” He gestures to the local men in their colourful tunics.

“Of course, Sir. It is our national dress. But these days, most young people, working people, like myself wear business dress or uniforms. The Indian dress, called Kurta-Shalwar, is mostly worn during religious holidays or occasions like weddings.”

Deepak brightens suddenly. “Would you like to try it? I can take you to a good store, very good-quality clothes! People buy from there during weddings and festivals. They even have a tailor so you can order one made.”

That sounds interesting, and Jensen says so.

They continue walking along the Mall, passing the historic Gaiety Theatre, which Deepak informs him is a cultural hub for social activities and performing arts. Jensen makes a mental note to look it up further. It might be nice to catch a theatrical production. He wistfully remembers how satisfying he had found the experience performing in “A Few Good Men” early in his career. Apart from contractual obligations, the hectic schedule of a long running TV series rarely left time or energy for pursuing any other projects. Even the current movie would not have been possible but for the extenuating circumstances in Jensen’s personal life, not to mention Benny’s razor sharp negotiating skills.

They’ve walked along the Mall until they reach Scandal Point, which earned its name due to the commotion caused by the elopement of a British lady with an Indian Maharaja. Chuckling to himself, he follows Deepak onto the road called the Ridge.

Walking along in silence, Jensen gazes out across the green slopes covered with firs, pines, the Himalayan oak and rhododendron trees dotting the landscape, interspersed by red-roofed chalets, half-timbered houses and Gothic government buildings. The simplistic charm of the view is enough to take his breath away. He slowly turns around in a circle, wanting to take in the full majesty of the surroundings, when his gaze freezes on a building that looks like a Church. Deepak follows his gaze, and starts explaining what the building is, but Jensen barely hears him above the roaring in his ears. His breath catches in his throat. He is unable to breathe, gulping in short gasps, as unfamiliar words echo in his mind. “Please, Father, don’t! Don’t…Don’t hurt him. PLEASE DON’T…DON’T!!!!”


	3. ACT II: MILAAP: MEETING

 

__

 

_Don’t grieve. Anything you lose, comes around in another form._

_~Rumi_

 

On Monday afternoon, Misha is sitting in his office at the bookstore, looking at the latest bestseller trends, trying to decide which ones he should keep in stock and which ones should be on display for ordering as needed. With the amount of time it takes for deliveries to reach Shimla, he generally gets his orders delivered to Vicki’s place in Chandigarh and then drives down to bring them up, but since Vicki is still indefinitely travelling for her research, he needs to plan the orders to compensate for the longer delivery times.

Chad generally comes in later on Mondays, having looked after the store on the weekend. Misha has repeatedly asked him to take Mondays off, but Chad prefers coming into work. He just asks for leave when he needs it, usually when he wants to investigate some haunting or paranormal occurrence, a subject he is very interested in, which is strange for someone who studies at MIT. Chad has been living in India over the past few years, travelling to various places, because, as he put it, “There’s just so much history here, man. You can _feel_ the resonance of all that spiritual energy.”

He had first come to Misha’s store two years ago, looking for some historical books at Gabriel’s recommendation, when he had been staying at the backpacker’s hostel. He had walked into the store, looked at Misha, and immediately said, “There’s a story in you, my friend. Your soul is calling out. A very old soul, if I know my stuff.”

And then he stayed. So much so that eventually Misha offered him a job at the bookstore, not so much because he needed the assistance, but because Chad brought with him the kind of company that Misha didn’t realise he had needed. He knew his books, talked about the most absolutely random things which caught Misha off-guard, and had a snarky yet confident view of life that was a breath of fresh air in the heaviness of Misha’s constant longing and waiting.

The bookstore is located near Scandal Point at the corner of the two main roads of Shimla - the Mall and the Ridge - and the window from Misha’s office provides a clear view of the hustle and bustle of tourists on both roads.

As he finalises the online orders for the month and tallies up the inventory with the sales from February, Misha thinks about his weekend with Gabriel. He still can’t get his head around the fact that the old coot is financing a movie. From the stories Gabe has told many times about his life, he has never been one for doing what was expected. His tales always painted him as the trickster, staging elaborate pranks that sometimes left people in tears, so maybe this is the trickster’s last prank, just more permanent and lasting.

A commotion catches his eye on the road below. Walking over to the window to get a better look, he strains to see through the gathering crowd to get a better look at what is happening.

He catches a glimpse of a man with sandy blond hair and broad shoulders, leaning with his hands on his knees, obviously hyperventilating. A zing of familiarity shoots through his heart before it is overtaken by a fierce protectiveness. He doesn’t even know his body has responded to the instinct until he is halfway down the road, running to reach the gathered crowd. As he pushes through the throng of onlookers, he sees a tourist in obvious distress, kneeling on the road, as a young Indian man tries to help. He vaguely recognises the fellow, a chauffeur, if Misha remembers correctly

“What happened?” he asks the young man.

“I…I don’t know, Sir. We were just walking and then he just started breathing really heavily.”

Misha looks at the tourist, in the middle of a classic panic attack, heaving and gasping to get his breathing under control. He drops to his knees near the man and puts his hand on his shoulder to ground him.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok, man. Breathe. Ok. Just breathe with me.”

He leads the man’s breathing in a classic in-hold-out-hold pattern, feeling the man’s breaths even out as he follows Misha’s instructions. A surge of relief courses through him as the tourist holds out his palm to indicate he’s fine.

Then he looks up. And Misha is lost.

The thrum of _longing_ as his eyes lock onto the man’s hauntingly green ones is so strong that Misha is almost on the verge of a panic attack himself. But he can’t look away. Seconds pass, then minutes, then eons. And still his eyes stay glued to the green ones. Suddenly, he realises his hand is still holding on to the other man’s shoulder and he stumbles back as if stung, his palm tingling at the point of contact.

Misha can’t remember how he got to his feet, or how he stumbled backwards still looking into the man’s eyes because he just _couldn’t_ look away. He forcibly tears his gaze away from the man and runs. He doesn’t stop until he gets back to the store and into his office, where he curls up at the desk with his head on his arms and tries to get his breathing under control before he loses himself.  

That is how Chad finds him when he comes in half an hour later.

“Misha! Hey, Misha, what happened, man? You look like you saw a ghost!” And then as his own words register, “Wait! Did you? See a ghost, I mean?”

Misha looks up at the younger man, and the haunted look in his eyes alerts Chad that whatever it is, its damn serious.

“Oh, boy! You look like shit, Boss. What the hell went down?”

Misha tries to gather the scattered thoughts in his brain which somehow reverberate around a constant litany of _green, green, green_ echoing in his head. His eyes squint as he tries to recall the exact sequence of events.

“I…I saw a commotion, down on the Ridge. It looked like a tourist was in trouble so I went down to help. And then.. then I…” Misha’s voice fades as he remembers how he panicked and ran away, before even making sure the guy he had gone to help was really alright.

“He looked at me, and his, um, his eyes, triggered me,” Misha croaks in embarrassment.

“Okay. That explains why you look like someone bulldozed over your grave. Who was he?” Chad asks curiously.

“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly stop to exchange pleasantries, you know!”

“So you saw a commotion and ran down to help a complete stranger. Huh…”

“He…” Misha hesitates before voicing his feelings, but if anyone can understand what Misha felt, it would be Chad with his penchant for the uncanny 

“He felt familiar,” Misha whispers. “I saw him from here, from the window, and he felt familiar, I ran down because it looked like someone I might know, like someone I needed to protect. But I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Listen, we need to…” Chad starts, but the front bell chimes to indicate a customer has walked into the store, so he just nods and says, “Later,” before going out to help the customer.

 

“Jensen! JENSEN! MR. ACKLES! Sir, are you alright?” Deepak’s voice seems to come from far away, trying to penetrate the fugue clouding his mind. Jensen feels a hand land on his shoulder, and it feels so familiarly reassuring, that he clings to the sensation. _Breathe. Just breathe with me._ A deep voice instructs him and Jensen forces himself to follow the command, feeling his breathing even out, the loud hammering of his heart slowing down to normal. When he comes to his senses, he is sitting on the low ledge by the road, clutching at his hair. He holds up a hand to indicate he is alright before looking up to thank the person who helped him out of the panic attack. 

When he raises his head, he finds himself looking into startlingly blue eyes, so blue that it seems the colour of the skies has bleached into the two orbs. He feels a jolt of _deja vu_ , as if he has seen those eyes before. He notes the shock that appears in those eyes when they meet his, and Jensen is so caught up in their depths that he barely notices any other details about the man’s face, save for an impression of dark hair. He feels as if he has dived off the highest platform into the deep end of a swimming pool, the noise of the world recedes to a background hum and he stares helplessly, unable to look away. Suddenly the man jerks away, taking the grounding touch of his hand with him, and Jensen can only watch as he stumbles backwards, turning and pushing his way past the crowd of gathered onlookers, before running away. Jensen’s eyes follow his retreat in confusion, the question in his mind unasked and unanswered, _Who ARE you?_

As his surroundings come back into focus, Jensen notices a few passersby have stopped out of curiosity, and they start dispersing when they see that he looks alright. Deepak is leaning down with a hand on his shoulder and looking scared out of his wits, his forehead creased with worry. Feeling embarrassed at having caused a scene, and guilty for having scared the young driver, he smiles, trying to indicate that he is fine.

The fear abates from Deepak’s eyes but he still looks worried and apologetically says, “Jensen! What happened? Do you need a doctor? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you walk so much. You must be tired from your travel, and…”

Jensen hurries to reassure him. “It’s OK, Deepak. I..I’m fine now. I don’t…don’t know..what happened. I… I guess I just couldn’t breathe…” For the life of him Jensen can’t recall exactly what he happened, but the bone chilling sense of raw fear still clings to his skin.

Trying to understand what had triggered this panic attack, he looks around, and his eyes catch onto the rising tower of the building, washed in the late afternoon sunlight, giving it an ethereal glow. “What’s that?” He points at the building.

“That! It is the church I was telling you about earlier. Christ Church? It is the second oldest church in all of India. It was built by the British people when they shifted their summer capital to Shimla. Maybe 1850-1855? Around that time, anyway.”

“That old, huh? Although I think that’s enough excitement for one day, eh! Right now, I’d just like to get back to the hotel!”

 That night, Jensen dreams of blue eyes and a low gravelly voice in the darkness, calling through the fog…

“Dean!…. Dean!… Dean!”

Jensen startles awake. The dream dissolves like wisps of smoke, but leaves his heart feeling heavy with grief. A strange melancholy settles into his bones. And is that… yep, his pillow is wet.  Apparently during the night, he cried enough tears to soak his pillow. But who the fuck is Dean??!!

The next few days of Jensen’s stay pass uneventfully, between indulging in the spa, massage, and sauna services provided by the five star hotel. He still has the unexplained dreams almost every night, vivid blue eyes full of sadness and a gravelly voice calling out to “Dean,” but he is getting used to the feeling of melancholy they leave him with, and at least he hasn’t cried in his sleep again. 

He spends his mornings sleeping late, followed by leisurely buffet breakfasts at the hotel’s cafe on the outdoor balcony, which provides breathtaking views of the valley. In fact, Jensen feels so at home here, he chooses to spend a couple of sunny days just soaking in the sun, sitting at the cozy wooden tables studying his script and sipping countless cups of the sweet masala chai tea, thanks to Deepak and his propensity for stopping at roadside _chaiwallas_.

Jensen subconsciously avoids further trips to the Mall or the Ridge, but Deepak drives him on day trips to nearby tourist spots and scenic lookouts, which tend to calm Jensen’s troubled mind. He loves sitting at the these spots, just gazing at the majesty of the view and letting the silence and stillness envelope him completely. Some days Deepak brings homemade delicacies like hot vegetable fritters, _pakoras_ , that his mum packs for lunch, on other days Jensen gets the hotel to pack him some sandwiches and they spend the day driving through the outskirts to the nearby towns until something interesting catches Jensen’s eye and they stop. Sometimes there are no seating spots and Jensen just sits on the hood of the car to enjoy the scenery, so Deepak starts keeping a warm rug in the car for Jensen to sit on.

Deepak continues to amaze Jensen. He seems to have an instinctive understanding of when Jensen needs silence and when he needs the silences filled. In those moments, they talk about random topics. Sometimes Deepak tells him about the stories and legends that make up the local history. Sometimes they talk about the differences in their cultures and the types of food they like. Jensen is shocked to learn that beef is banned in most of India, the cow being considered holy in the Hindu culture.

“Holy Cow, heh!” Jensen responds, explaining the expression to Deepak when he looks confused.

On the Wednesday of Jensen’s first week in Shimla, Deepak drives him to a nearby picnic spot called the Glen. A natural waterfall tumbles down the hill in the distance, creating a steady roar, complemented by the gurgling of the crystal clear water in the stream as it flows over rocks and pebbles.

Jensen feels a strange sense of peace wash over him, and he stands gazing at the stream for a long time, thoughts arising and fading away in his mind like the bubbles on the surface of the water.

They sit at one of the wooden picnic tables, surrounded by lush green forest and the sounds of the scenic stream gurgling in the distance, and their conversation turns towards family.

Jensen learns that Deepak studied mechanical engineering at a college in Chandigarh. He had hoped to find a job and settle down there, but his father died during his last year of study, and he relocated back to Shimla to support his mother. Jensen talks about his family, and Jared Padalecki, his best friend and co-star on the TV series. He tells Deepak about how Jared tries to make Jensen laugh during his coverage, and Deepak looks shocked when Jensen told him about the time when Jared tried to crack Jensen by grabbing his balls outside the camera frame.

 Deepak senses the wistful tone of Jensen’s voice when talking about home and Jared.

“I think you are missing home, no?” he asks.

Jensen is starting to understand nuances of how Deepak speaks; the little “no” at the end of his questions, is a typical Indianism, similar to the French “n’est-ce pas”.

“I…I don’t… you know what? Maybe, I guess, I am,” he admits with a slight shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I enjoy this time to unwind, you know, to just _be_ , without the pressure of being on display, worrying about reporters and media. It's just… there is all this beauty, and I can’t share it, with someone, my family or… friends, I mean.” Jensen avoids specifying further and looks out into the distance.

“You have someone special? You know, a girlfriend, or a wife, that you want to share this with?”

 _Do I?_ Jensen pauses a moment longer than he intended, before answering, “I do. Well, I think I do. Lisa, she’s an actor. We are on ‘a break’ apparently.” He can’t help the bitterness that creeps into his voice.

Deepak looks confused. “So, you just broke up? Was it because you were coming to India for a long time?”

“Not broke up, at least, I don’t believe so just yet. I told her some… things… personal things, about me, and she could not accept that right away. She said that she needed time to think about, well, about us, I guess. So, we decided not to see each other for some time, and after that, well, then we will see.” Jensen clarifies.

“Ah, this is why you have come so far for job, no? You are hurt that she does not want to see you, and being so far makes it easier, ya?”

Jensen is once again startled at the driver’s insight. His family just accepted his claim that he was taking this role to be away from the spotlight after coming out. While that was not untrue, his main motivation had been the hurt, the sense of betrayal he felt when Lisa had asked that they take a break.

“Hmmm…” Jensen says noncommittally, then smiled and says, “So, where am I having dinner tonight, Deepak? What have you got planned?”

Deepak allows the deflection. “I am thinking you are feeling homesick today.” It is not a question. “So, we go to a place where you can meet other American people. Maybe it will cheer you up! There is a restaurant on the Mall…”

Jensen holds up a hand to interrupt. “The Mall? Um… I don’t think… after last time, Deepak, I’m not sure… I mean..” He doesn’t really want to tell the driver that he is scared, although just remembering the dark and chilling fear that had gripped him, sends a shudder down his spine.

Deepak is insistent though. “This time, we will use the passenger lift, no walking, I promise. You will like it, Jensen, I am sure. There are many foreigners there, not many local people. I’m sure you are tired of Indian food by now, also, no?” he teases. “So you eat American pizza and burgers and meet other people from your country. Homesickness gone, whoosh!” He makes a flying gesture with his hand.

Jensen grins. The young Indian definitely knows how to bring him out of his doldrums. He raises his palms in a gesture of resignation. “Ok. Ok. I give up. Americans and burgers it is!” 

 

 

“Alright, Boss. Spill,” Chad says, taking a long gulp of the chilled beer. He places his drink on the table, then leans his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow resting on the table.

They are seated in a booth in the only bar slash restaurant in the city that serves American diner-style food. Despite the fact that the place is owned and run by a young Indian couple, the food and atmosphere is authentic. The decor is a combination of an American diner and a retro bar. The floor is tiled in the classic chess board pattern, but the lighting is warm and soft, creating private spaces around the tables and booths. Towards the left, posters from classic Hollywood movies are framed and mounted across the wall lined with diner-style red booths. A screened private corner to the right is studded with Rock and Roll memorabilia, displaying album covers and concert posters for American bands ranging from Louis Armstrong to Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. The bar itself is situated directly opposite the entrance. It follows the red, black and white colour scheme of diners across the United States.

Misha finds it comforting to come here when he feels overwhelmed by homesickness or when his mental balance is disrupted. The events from Monday have shaken him to the core. He has been restless all day, and the longing has strengthened to where it is a throbbing ache in his chest, a hollow chamber echoing the silence. There is a constant itch under his skin to find out who the green eyed man was, but at the same time dreading it. That hasn’t stopped him from anxiously looking out the window of his office countless times in the hope of catching a glimpse of sandy blond hair and broad shoulders on the street below, however, not that Misha knows what he would do if he did see the man again.

By Wednesday, he is snapping in irritation at the smallest things, and Chad finally physically shoves him out of the store with a promise to tell him everything over drinks in the evening.

He runs a finger through the condensation on his wine glass, and lets out a long breath, “I don’t know. I told you: all that happened was I saw his eyes and ran. Fuck, Chad, I didn’t even stop to see of he was ok.”

“Misha, you’ve had these panic attacks before, what I’m worried about is this time you haven’t been able to shake it off the way you normally do.”

“I..I can’t explain it.” Misha sighs, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “This feels different. Stronger, somehow. And there’s this… this… it’s like I have to find him. Yet I’m terrified of what will happen if I do!”

“Look, you aren’t going to like this, because I know you scoff at my ‘paranormal’ beliefs. But you are a very old soul. I can sense it. And you believe in _karma_. I know you’ve read more on the subject than you like to admit.”

Misha rolls his eyes. “What does that have to do with this?”

“What? You can’t fucking tell me you don’t make the connection?!” Chad scoffs. “Karma is about balancing the books, your spiritual books. That means unfinished business. Are you seriously going to tell me that you haven’t thought about why… _what_ you are waiting for?”

Misha stares at the younger man, mouth agape. “That’s…that’s ridiculous! Sure, I feel like I’m waiting for…something. But the only unfinished business I can think of is my ambition for world domination,” he snarks in defence. 

“You can laugh all you want, Bossman, but the fact is, you need to get your head out of your ass if you want any chance of resolving this… this _thing_ that has tied you down to this place for over two decades! Aren't you even a little bit curious? Why now? Why _him_?”

Chad sighs, holding his palm up in a resigned gesture. “All I’m saying is, think about it. You said it’s gotten stronger these past couple of weeks, right?”

“Yes. And it’s been worse since I saw…him. It’s like I can’t seem to… it won’t let go, this time. I just feel so…so restless all the time. Like I should be _doing_ something, but I don’t know what that is!”

“Maybe if you knew who he was, it might explain why he affected you so much. You should try to find out who he was. I mean, you said it was a tourist right?”

“Yeah, well, obviously. Unless there is another foreigner living here that we don’t know about. Which, you know, is totally possible, because we are such a large city,” Misha says sarcastically.

Chad’s mouth lifts in a sardonic grin. “You’re doing it again, Boss. Stop hiding! All I meant was if he’s a tourist, you can check with the hotels.”

“You want me to stalk a complete stranger? Yeah, Chad, that’s not scary at all! ‘Hi, I’m the creep who stared into your lovely green eyes and freaked out, but I can’t stop thinking about you, so I decided to call every hotel in the vicinity to track you down!’” 

He looks incredulously at Chad, but his gaze fixed on the entrance to the bar.

Chad looks at him slyly and murmurs, “Or… you could just turn around.”  

 

As he is getting ready for the evening, Jensen admits that he is a bit excited to meet other people besides hotel staff and Deepak. He is also somewhat nervous about being recognised and accosted for autographs or photos with fans; he has quite enjoyed the anonymity. 

Nevertheless, with that possibility at the forefront of his mind, he takes extra care in his wardrobe selections. He pulls on a soft pair of dark jeans which hug his ass just right, and the dark colour hides his prominent bowlegs, especially in pictures. He chooses an emerald green t-shirt which Lisa always said accentuates his eyes, and pairs it with his light green plaid button down shirt. That combination has resulted in some good convention Photo Ops, so he knows the ensemble makes for flattering photographs. He elects to keep his sleeves down, but picks up his black leather jacket in case it gets nippy later in the night. With a final look in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, he picks up his keycard and phone and makes his way downstairs.

The restaurant-slash-bar is a short walking distance from the passenger lift station. It is easy to recognise the American bar amidst the neon lights of the surrounding restaurants because of the stars and stripes backdrop of the signboard. A narrow metal staircase at the side of the building leads to the bar itself, which is located on the second floor. As they enter, Jensen feels like he’s been teleported back to Texas and he suddenly understands why Deepak insisted on bringing him here.

The decor instantly puts him at ease, posters of Hollywood movies and Rock and Roll memorabilia on all sides. Never in his lifetime would he have thought the red, black and white colour scheme of American diners would feel like home. What captures Jensen’s attention, however, is the wall above the bar. Two classic acoustic guitars are hung diagonally above the bar and Jensen strains to recognise the make. Other tidbits of American culture are randomly interspersed among the booths and tables. Jensen notices a “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign and a highway marker for Route 66 suspended from the ceiling on chains, other highway signs and old records haphazardly adorn the walls or are hung from the ceiling. The entire effect, while chaotic, definitely gives you a bird's eye view of American pop culture, and Jensen feels nostalgic for home, but grateful that Deepak suggested coming here, because the Indian was right: it definitely satisfies the longing for familiarity. 

Jensen notices Deepak trying to get his attention.

“Uh.. I will wait for you downstairs, ok? You can call my number and I will come to pick you up,” Deepak says.

“You won’t stay?” Jensen asks. Suddenly he feels intensely uncomfortable being entirely on his own in a bar. He hasn’t done that since back in college. Since his acting career took off and he started being recognised, he has rarely gone, or needed to go, anywhere on his own. If no one else, his friend Jared usually accompanies him. Apart from being co-stars, they are best friends and are used to hanging out together outside of work as well. Even after Jared got married, and Jensen himself began dating Lisa, they usually hung out together. Sometimes the girls would decide to have their own night out, and Jared and he went bar hopping, but usually then too they were joined by mutual friends as the evening progressed.

Deepak looks uncomfortable. “Um, Jensen…It…it would not be.. um.. proper.”

This surprises Jensen. “Why?” he asks incredulously.

Again, Deepak avoids looking directly at him. “Uh.. I…. I am your driver. I can’t…I shouldn’t be… um.. I have to wait outside, okay?” Then he gathers himself and smiles in encouragement. “You go on.. go on, meet American people, talk! Have fun!” He motions for Jensen to go inside, then turns around to descend down the stairs again.

To say Jensen is extremely confused would be putting it mildly. This is the first time since he has known Deepak that he has acted anything but confident. He wonders if he said or did something that made Deepak uncomfortable but can’t come up with anything. He is still trying to figure out what happened to make the young Indian scurry away. As he stares thoughtfully at the staircase, he is startled by a teasing voice behind him.

“Yes, it is quite fascinating,” it says. “Those are the same stairs that go down, as well”.

Jensen whirls around at the speaker, the gravelly voice resonating a familiar note in his heart, and is met by the vivid blue eyes that have haunted his dreams.

With a shock of recognition, Jensen finds himself staring into those eyes again, much as he had the first time when the guy had helped him on the Ridge.

Jensen awkwardly tries to say something, fuck _anything_ , would be better than the gawking he seems to be doing.

“Uh… yeah. Um.. I mean…” He trails off, forgetting what he meant to say.

“Fuck! So apparently now I’m a blabbering teenager,” he mutters to himself.

“I sincerely hope that’s not true, because it would be very disappointing,” the Adonis murmurs softly.

Jensen gasps at the blatant flirting, feeling the flush spread further, heating his cheeks. He looks at the man, whose eyes sparkle with a teasing glint, the corners crinkling up elegantly, a result, Jensen is sure, of smiling all the time.

“Um, hi,” Jensen manages to stammer.

“Hello. I’m Misha,” he holds out a hand. “Misha Collins. New in town?” he asks.

  

“Or… you could just turn around.”

Misha gapes at Chad, afraid to follow his pointing finger towards the bar’s entrance at his back. 

He picks up his drink, gulping thirstily in the hope that it will soothe his suddenly extremely dry throat. He stares at the Chad with terrified eyes.

“Wh..what…?” 

“Behind you. I’d bet my life on it, Boss.” 

“Ok… ok…I guess.. Fuck! Ok I’m gonna… I’m just gonna peek, ok. But if I… you know,” Misha gestures with his hands to indicate breathing heavily. “Get me the fuck out of here. The last thing I wanna do is make more of a fool of myself. Ok?”

Chad flicks three fingers off his forehead in a salute. “Scout’s honour, boss!”

“I doubt you were ever in the Scouts.” He rolls his eyes.

He takes a deep breath to calm his thundering heartbeat, bracing himself for the certainty of going into an anxiety attack, and slowly turns around. He sees the same tourist he had helped earlier. He waits for the inevitable result. He waits some more. And then some. It takes him a full two minutes of staring to realise that, strangely, seeing him this time does not cause the extreme freak out it had the first time. If anything, there seems to be a hum of anticipation vibrating through his entire body and a strange excitement causes his heartbeat to accelerate. It must be because his attention is not diverted by trying to figure out how to breathe that he is able to get a good look at the face, hell, the entire package that contains those green eyes. And the motherfucker is _gorgeous_!  

A classically handsome face with a strong jawline, clean shaven, broad shoulders defined by a well fitting plaid shirt, the top few buttons left undone to show an elegant neck, narrow waist and hips, just a hint of bow legs in dark jeans… The guy is unknowingly ticking all the boxes in his head and Misha feels a long forgotten flutter as the butterflies in his stomach decide to come out of retirement, flapping their wings stronger than the pigeons at bloody Trafalgar Square.

If asked, Misha would be unable to tell you when he moved, but apparently his legs decided to carry him to the stranger (not really, he _knows_ him, or at least that’s what his subconscious decides), and his mouth uttered what was apparently some flirty shit because the man flushes so so deliciously at whatever was said that Misha is lost in a constellation of freckles coming into focus.

The jury is still out on whether he wants to be lost in the flecks of gold in this man’s eyes, or the freckles on his face, but Misha holds out a hand.

“Hello. I’m Misha. Misha Collins. New in town?”

“Um, yeah. Hi. Jensen.” The GQ model who stepped out from the front cover shakes the offered hand. “And yes. Well, I’ve been here close to a week, I suppose you can call that new,” he supplied.

“Well then, welcome to Shimla, Jensen!”

“Um, yeah, thanks!” Jensen says, letting go of Misha’s hand. He smiles tentatively as he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and looks so utterly lost, that you can’t blame Misha, really, for offering assistance, you know, being the good samaritan that he was.

“You can… um.. you can join us, if you like? I mean…”

A look of relief flashes through the man’s face and Misha thinks he may have seen a slight look of confusion flicker in the eyes as well, before the man’s grin brightens. “Yeah, sure. I’d love to!”

Misha guides Jensen to their booth, a hand at his elbow (which is _not_ burning at the contact), and does the introductions.

“Jensen, this is my friend Chad. Chad, Jensen.”

Chad cocks an eyebrow at the newcomer. “Hey, man! Nice name!”

Misha motions for Jensen to take a seat opposite Chad, as Misha slides into the spot opposite Jensen.

“So, what’s your poison?” he asks.

“I don’t know, man. I’ve just stuck to beer, or scotch on the rocks back at the hotel. Maybe a Bud, if they have it.”

Misha gestures to the bartender, Alfie, a young blond man who looks like a student, holding up two fingers and calling out the name of the beer. The bartender brings the drinks over, along with a martini glass full of salted peanuts.

As he places the beer in front of them, he glances at Jensen with a quick smile, before his eyes widen to the size of saucers. “Oh my God! It’s you!”

Misha sees a look of regret flash into those green eyes before it is schooled and replaced by a thousand watt smile that has Misha’s heart jumping into his mouth.

“Hey!” He waves to the flustered young man.

“You know Alfie?” Misha asks in surprise.

“Um, noooo. But, it seems …Alfie..here, knows who I am,” Jensen points to the bartender then to himself, emphasising his point.

“Oh my God, Misha!” Alfie glares at Misha. “SEE?! This is why I keep telling you to get Netflix! Please excuse him, Mr. Ackles. He’s a dinosaur who managed to miss the invention of TV.”

“Is it my fault that I prefer more enlightening pursuits than sitting vacant-eyed in front of the idiot box? It’s called ‘reading’. You might have heard of it, Alfie?!” Misha signs the air quotes, then makes a mental note to resign from the cool club.

“C’mon, Misha, reading’s fine and all, but like, not even knowing what’s on TV! That’s just not normal,” Alfie protests.

“You know what I always say, kid. I want to live in a world where normal is an insult,” Misha declares smugly, wagging a professorial finger at Alfie to punctuate his speech.

In making his point to Alfie, Misha misses the elbow that Chad seems to be digging into his side, until his friend literally pinches the skin at his waist.

“Ow!! What did you do that for?” Misha whirls around to his left, where Chad is trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his face behind his beer as he makes exaggerated facial gestures, waggling his eyes and brows in a comical caricature to indicate their new acquaintance. 

With his forehead furrowed in confusion, Misha looks from Chad to Jensen, who is looking at Misha with amusement, a smirking grin on his perfect face.

“Wha..Am I missing something?” he asks in confusion.

He looks from Jensen’s easy smile, to Chad’s comical expression, to Alfie’s eyes literally bugging out of his face as he goggles at Jensen.

Alfie’s words belatedly register in his brain. This is when elephants stampede into his open mouth, what with all the space provided by his jaw hanging open, dropping somewhere to the vicinity of the floor.

“Wait! Ackles? Jensen ACKLES?! He’s the guy you keep fangirling over every time he tweets? Motherfucker, Alfie!” Misha exclaims.

He suddenly realises that the topic of conversation is sitting across from him, and feels a heated flush creep up his face. _Way to go, Misha_.

“I’m really really sorry. From what Alfie has told me, you are probably the most famous TV star in America today. I’m not…I don’t watch TV. And I’ve never really bothered with entertainment news from back home since I’ve been here.”

“How long have you been on vacation, man?” Jensen asks curiously.

Misha squints his eyes in confusion, his head tilting curiously to the right. “Vacation?” Then his face clears as understanding dawns. “Oh! I apologise, I realise my introduction may have been…um.. inadequate… but I was… uh…” He bites his lower lip, his speech trailing off in embarrassment.

“Ok. How about we start again? Full disclosure.” Jensen tilts his bottle in a toast.

“Hi! I’m Jensen Ackles. I’m an actor, I love Gummi bears, golf, and a pair of jeans that you can wear boots with. Oh, and my sun sign is Pisces.” He smirks, something dark and amusing glinting in his eyes.

Misha grins, “Hi. I’m Misha Collins, bookseller and long time resident. Since I was twenty, actually. I also moonlight as a saviour of tourists in need. One day, I’m going to take over the world and rule as Supreme Overlord.” He clinks his bottle to Jensen’s, and with a saucy wink says, “Full disclosure.”

  

When Jensen turned around, the last person he expected to see was his rescuer from the other day.

Jensen stares in shock, his mouth hanging open, as he looks at the man in front of him. He is tanned a golden brown, his skin looking like molten honey in the soft lighting of the restaurant. The Indian kurta the man wears is different from the ones he sees on the streets. It looks coarse yet soft, the colour pastel blue, with some delicate embroidery in dark green silk at the stiff Nehru collar and neckline, extending in a V-shape down to his chest. It highlights the sleek column of his neck and hugs his wide shoulders down to the taut muscles of his chest. Jensen forces his gaze away from the delicious sight, only to be met by the classical features of a fucking Greek statue. Sharp nose, sharper jawline dusted lightly with dark scruff, classical cheekbones, a head of hair so erratically styled as to suggest he just rolled out of bed, or was in the bathroom putting those sinfully plush pink lips to good use…. Jensen feels himself flush right to the top of his ears. His mind rarely goes to _that_ place this fast! Sure, he has felt attraction before, but this sex-god seems to have stepped out of all of Jensen’s fantasies.

When he speaks, his voice is the perfect blend of gruff phone sex operator and soothing professor with a liberal dose of “I screamed myself hoarse during sex that I had not five minutes ago.”

Suffice to say, Jensen suddenly has a new appreciation for the line “You had me at Hello.”

As Jensen follows Misha to the booth, he realises the blue eyed man did not seem to have any idea who Jensen is. Which is a refreshing change. Curious, but refreshing. 

The explanation comes in the form of the barman who brings their drinks to the table, and who _does_ recognise who he is. Jensen sees the young man’s eyes widen and knows what is coming, having seen that facial transformation hundreds of times before. Although the flush on Misha’s face as he tries to apologise is perhaps the cutest thing he has ever seen. 

Jensen finds this adorkable side to the gorgeous Adonis _very_ appealing. He pulls out the big guns, his lips curving upwards in a cocky grin. He knows he is attractive, Hollywood is too fickle in its devotion to stick around if you aren’t, not in these days of High Definition everything! But the fact that Misha is flustered because he is distracted by Jensen sends a thrill to places south of the belt. He is pretty certain Misha is not the type to be ruffled easily.

Yup, Jensen is definitely enjoying the proverbial shoe being on a different foot!

 _Serves the fucker right,_ he thinks, _for deploying his unfairly alluring voice on unsuspecting tourists._

“So what brings you to this corner of the world, Mr. Famous Actor? Seems a bit out of the way for a vacation for you,” Misha asks, and Jensen drowns in that sex-on-toast voice. Seriously, the man could be reciting the phone book, and still leave him hypnotised.

Misha’s friend, Chad excuses himself after their second round of drinks, with an explanation of an early start the next day. Misha catches on to the fact that Jensen might not be able to relax completely with the prospect of being recognised constantly hanging over his head, and moves them to a booth in the corner, at the back of the bar. Jensen is glad, because he was beginning to feel uncomfortably exposed, and the crowd in the place looks to be made up of mostly young backpackers and university students, the demographic that makes up the chunk of his fandom.

“Uh, well, I’m not really here on vacation. I’m going to be shooting a movie here, so I’ll actually be here for a few months, at least.”

“A movie? You mean an _entire_ movie?” Misha asks, emphasising the word.

“Yeah, apparently it's one of the conditions the producer had, that the movie be filmed entirely in Shimla. He lives here actually, and is apparently very old. I just assumed he insisted on it because it may be difficult for him to travel. But having seen the place now, I would have thought it might be routine. I’m sure a lot of Bollywood movies get filmed here. I don’t know of any location scouts anywhere who’d pass up this piece of heaven.”

Misha looks down at his drink and smiles as he seems to contemplate. “Hmmm. The producer insisted, huh? Is his name Gabriel Novak?” 

“Yes! You know him?”

“You could say that.” Misha nods. He cringes internally at the mount of fun Gabe is going to have pulling his leg about the “I hate actors” spiel when he finds out about this.

He goes on, “He told me about the movie last week. Asked me to work on it, helping them with the locations and stuff. I’m actually supposed to meet the director, Ben Edward, or something, tomorrow.”

“Ben Edlund,” Jensen corrects. “He’s a very well-known director. Groundbreaking, carry the flame, shake the establishment kind of film maker. I’m actually looking forward to working with him. Although how come Mr. Novak wants you to work on the locations? Didn’t you say you run a bookstore?”

“Mmhmm, but I also freelance as a guide for foreign tourists, so I know this place like the back of my hand. I guess Gabe is trying to cash in on that.”

“Cool! That means I can expect to see a lot more of you while I’m here, yeah?” Jensen asks hopefully. 

“I haven’t made up my mind, actually. I…”, he pauses. “Well, let’s just say my opinion of the film industry and its stars is not um.. favourable.”

“No offence,” he adds apologetically, realising he is perhaps himself talking to a “star”, as he put it.

“None taken,” Jensen says easily. “You seem to be speaking from experience.” 

Misha huffs. “Yeah. I’ve met some from time to time.” His expression reflects his opinions. “Although I don’t advertise, sometimes the hotels make bookings for me. You know, when I first came here, there weren’t too many foreigners who ventured here, people usually tended to stick to the known tourist spots like Manali, or further south to the desert in Rajasthan. There were times I felt lonely or homesick with nowhere to go. That was my inspiration, I guess, to help someone in the same boat.”

“What about you, though, what brought you out here in the first place?” Jensen is curious to know why this man chose to live here, of all places. Granted, it is a picturesque place, but Jensen can’t imagine living here permanently.

Misha shrugs an elegant shoulder, his fingers playing along the neck of the bottle (which Jensen was definitely not noticing, very very definitely, NOT) as he says, “To be honest, I don’t know. I guess I was always attracted to… the spirituality.. of the eastern philosophy. Even growing up, my family was the quirky one with what was considered “hippy” values, in those days. You know, love everyone, spread kindness, don’t judge, don’t discriminate…these days you would call them ‘New Age Liberals’, I suppose.” Again with the air quotes! Jensen is so fucked.

He listens intently, chin resting on one palm, letting Misha’s voice wash over him. He is mesmerised by the graceful way he uses his hands while he talks, his eyes following the movement before being distracted by the quirk of his lips or the cocking of an eyebrow. “After I graduated, I had this romantic notion that if you were in politics, it gave you a solid platform to do some good in the world. So I worked as an intern at the White House, when Clinton was President. Unfortunately, I quickly realised politics was not my cup of tea. I was fairly disillusioned by the political process at the time. That was when my girlfriend, Vicki, convinced me and my best friend Darius to accompany her to India. We backpacked across the northern part of India. We made our way through monasteries in Nepal and ashrams in Rishikesh, someone told us about this place and we came here to relax and unwind before heading back home.” His eyes take on a faraway look, as if recalling those young days. “As soon as we reached Shimla, I felt, I don’t know, as if I had come home, as if I had arrived where I was meant to be.”

That perks Jensen up, the words catching his attention, and he feels a shiver run down his spine. He can feel the skin of his forearms forming goosebumps, and a prickle of cold slithers across his neck at Misha’s next words. “Everything looked familiar, almost like…deja vu”

“….deja vu,” Jensen says the words at the exact same time as Misha, startling him.

Misha gasps as he stares into Jensen’s eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. The air around them seems to shimmer ethereally, a charge of static that could burst into flame at any moment. Jensen feels the fog of his dream envelope them, dulling all the noise and the people around them, leaving Misha in sharp focus across from him. He is falling into the bottomless depths of those ocean blue eyes which are so intimately familiar, despite the fact that this is the first time he has actually met the man. What is more noticeable is that unlike the time at the Ridge, this time the sensation doesn’t cause a screaming chasm of dread to open up in his heart. Instead, his heart is unexpectedly racing in joy, a thrill of excitement runs through him, and before he knows it, his hand reaches involuntarily, palm facing outward, towards Misha’s cheek, as a soft sigh escapes his lips, “Cas…”

 

Misha wasn’t lying when he told Gabriel that he did not like dealing with famous actors.

Which is why he is disappointed when it turns out the man he is irrevocably drawn to is an actor, a famous one at that. Misha has had horrifying experiences of actors behaving badly. It is as if their star status makes them think they are entitled to adoration and supplication by everyone. If it isn’t the stars themselves who are insufferable (Misha admits, some of them can be quite decent human beings) it is members of their constant entourage of staff and various other hangers on taking advantage of the reflected glory, and Misha really has no fucks left to give for their antics. 

Until he meets Jensen Ackles.

He is so completely unlike _anyone_ , famous or otherwise, Misha has encountered in his forty two years. His laughter is uninhibited, his smile infectious, and Misha won’t deny that he has mercilessly attempted to keep providing reasons which brought that delicious flush to his cheeks all evening, the one that highlights the constellation of freckles dusted across his face. More than that, unlike most actors, who in Misha’s experience went on and on, talking incessantly about themselves, Jensen is a surprisingly good listener who seems genuinely interested when Misha talks and participates just as enthusiastically in the conversation.

Jensen is genuinely _nice_ , and _kind_ . Proven by the fact that the man actually invited his driver to join him at the bar, something unheard of in a society like India, and certainly not by someone rich and famous. More so, he seems genuinely shocked as to _why_ the Indian was reluctant to join him.

Misha is pleasantly surprised as he asks, “You expected your chauffeur, your Indian chauffeur, to accompany you to a bar? To eat and drink with you? Oh boy, Jensen, you must have scared the shit out of him!” He shook his head as he smiled into his bottle, before taking a long sip of his beer.

“What? Why?” Jensen stutters. “I felt it would have been rude to not invite him, man! He’s been perhaps my only friend this past week, and it’s not like he hasn’t eaten with me….”

Jensen’s voice fades away as his mind replays the past few days in Deepak’s company. Now that he thinks about it, he realises that the young driver seemed to discreetly disappear whenever Jensen was eating. The only times he remembers Deepak actually consuming something with him was when they stopped for masala chai at the roadside vendors.

“But…why?” Jensen asks, perplexed.

“I think it's a bit of a throwback to the class system the British introduced into the Indian culture. Even today, a lot of Indians, especially in service professions, almost automatically defer to those they consider superior to themselves. Politicians, movie actors, their boss, white people.” Misha waves a hand between Jensen and himself. “I don’t agree with it, obviously. In the beginning, I used to be extremely uncomfortable with that kind of distance, the deference, but I realised that protesting against their attitude only made them more uncomfortable. After all these years, I guess I have reluctantly accepted their need to keep that distance, maintain that deference. It is a quirk of their culture, I suppose,” he finishes.

Throughout the evening, conversation between them had flows freely. Misha finds himself so at ease with the man that he discloses a lot more about himself than he normally would to someone he just met. That strange sense of familiarity he felt for the actor continues to glow warmly in his chest, and it feels more like catching up with an old friend at a school reunion than like talking to a stranger.

That is, until Misha starts talking about the first time he came to Shimla. As Misha describes what he had felt, he sees Jensen’s face go from fascinated interest to sheer shock, the green eyes glazing with something, as he says “deja vu” at the exact same time as Misha.

Time stands still. Misha clings to those verdant depths like his life depends on it, as a weird energy in the air surrounds them. He can feel his heart race, thumping painfully in his chest, and vaguely in his peripheral vision he sees Jensen reach out a hand to touch his cheek. His entire being reacts to the touch, electrified tingles travelling from the point of contact to every nerve ending in his body. He feels himself subconsciously respond, his head involuntarily leaning into the caress, when Jensen whispers.

“Cas…”

 

_CAS. CAS. CAS._

The words clamour in Misha’s brain. He has no idea what they mean but it feels like he _should_ . He feels the word knocking at closed doors in his mind, but he doesn’t know how to open them. Or where the doors _are_. He just knows that he wants to reach out, and cling to the person saying that word. The feeling of longing spikes, shooting through his already racing heart, and Misha feels himself spiralling.

He stands suddenly, awkwardly, “I…I’m…I’ll just get.. yeah… I’ll get us some refills.” He manages to stammer out as he escapes towards the bar.

He makes an effort to walk rather than giving into the urge to run. He really does not want to scare Jensen away by always running. Running away. Suddenly, it seems extremely important to let Jensen know Misha is coming back, that he isn’t leaving, that he never meant to leave him.

_Wait, what?!! What the fuck was that? What does that mean “never meant to leave him”?_

He instinctively turns back towards their booth, as if to reassure Jensen that he is coming back.

He curses himself for letting Chad leave. He should have asked his friend to stay. This is getting Chad level of weird and Misha isn’t sure he knows how to sort through the confusing feelings and thoughts running through his head. He finds his way past the bar to the bathroom, where he leans on the sink, and lets his head drop between his shoulders as he tries to control the agitation. His head feels like the clouded bottom of a murky pool, years of settled mud and silt stirred up by a storm. Misha turns on the tap, leaving the water slightly on the cold side, and splashes some across his face and eyes. As he looks at his image in the mirror, he catches sight of his eyes, and for a moment it seems the answers to his questions are swirling in their depths, just out of his reach. As he continues to stare, the feeling subsides, and Misha becomes aware of the sound of water running from the tap. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and exits the bathroom, before making his way over to the bar to get their refills and joining Jensen back at the booth.

By the time he takes his seat again, Jensen seems to have composed himself as well, and after a few awkward silences and embarrassed coughs, they manage to put the incident behind them, both unsure of what happened, but very sure that they want the evening to continue.


	4. ACT III: PURVANUBHAV: DEJA VU

 

__

 

_Open you hands, if you want to be held._

_~Rumi_

  


On Thursday, Jensen wakes up groggy and disoriented, his sleep plagued by the dream again.  He grabs the phone on his nightstand to look at the time. 6 a.m. - much earlier than he usually wakes up since being here. Rubbing the heel of his palm into his eyes in an attempt to clear the cobwebs, he groans at the after effects of a restless night.

This time the dream had retained the same melancholy tone, yet had mutated at times to something darker, scarier, that had him startling awake in sweat soaked terror a couple of times during the night.

Jensen winces at the pain radiating from his neck when he stretches. He rubs a hand to soothe the ache. He looks at the wildly dishevelled bed covers, a couple of pillows thrown to the floor. It looks like he thrashed about quite a bit during the dream…. No, more like a full blown nightmare. It was different from the wispy dreams he experienced after the episode at the Ridge. This one had sunk its claws into him. He feels flayed and cut open, a foreign ache blooms in his chest and a dark hollow gnaws in the pit of his stomach. Jensen realises with a shock that what he feels can be described more accurately as grief. The cloying, gripping, consuming, helpless grief of losing something, someone that is integral to your existence.

Jensen has become used to the dreams leaving him feeling melancholy, a residual sadness that had been easy to push to the back of his mind as he started his day. Today, the aftermath dominates his senses. His limbs feel heavier, and moving seems to require too much effort, like being encased in molasses. Groaning, he gingerly gets out of bed and stumbles his way to the bathroom. After using the toilet, he washes his hands and face at the sink, holding a washcloth soaked in hot water against his neck to soothe some of the ache. As the heat sinks in, he looks up in the mirror…and freezes.

Images from the dream crash into his mind, overloading his brain. He sees the same blue eyes again, though this time they are framed by a face, Misha’s face. Not the Misha he met last night, all loose-limbed grace and smooth tongued charm. The Misha in his dream holds his body stiffly, his posture aristocratic, formal. Where Misha yesterday had a face that was a canvas of emotions, lines of laughter etching the skin around his eyes, the one in his dream is stoic, his face almost expressionless. But his eyes! Those eyes are awash in grief, overwhelmed by pain. He dresses differently too. A dark coloured suit, a white shirt, and a tan militaristic trench-coat, but what is most prominent is the blue tie around his neck, knotted awkwardly, making it face backwards. Despite being exact replicas of one another, the only things common between the dream Misha and the real one were those hauntingly blue eyes, and the gravelly voice, just an octave lower than Misha’s, which still echoed in his ears, calling an unfamiliar name “ _Dean…Dean…Dean._ ”

The washcloth goes cold against his skin and Jensen startles back to reality. He turns off the tap and makes his way out of the bathroom. He stops at the kitchenette to turn on the coffee machine, hoping the caffeine hit can wake him up and pull him out of the dream.

As he waits for the coffee to brew, he allows his mind to wander back to the previous evening.

He enjoyed his time with Misha, had even been insanely attracted to the man. It has been a long time since he felt this comfortable with anyone, besides Jared. But they have known each other for practically half his life, since the days when they were both struggling actors trying to make it big.

Jensen has never been so openly flirtatious, let alone comfortable, with someone whom he just met. But being with Misha felt so _familiar_.

Apart from the fiasco when Misha first spoke to him, Jensen had let himself be cocooned in the easy camaraderie and engaging conversation, fascinated by the lilting accent Misha seemed to have developed, a combination of his American roots and his adopted home. 

Jensen skips past the awkward bit where he had apparently stared into Misha’s eyes for god knows how long before he almost caressed Misha’s cheek, and Misha had frozen solid, staring at Jensen like a deer caught in headlights, before both of them had looked away in embarrassment, and stumbled over hurried “Excuse me”s and “I’m sorry”s.

Thank God Misha saved the moment when he went to the bar to get them both fresh drinks and returned with tequila shots (which Jensen was very very grateful for). By the time Misha came back he had composed himself, and Jensen had had time to school his expression back to confident. They picked up the evening from earlier, leaving behind the speed bump of awkwardness, and neither of them so much as mentioned it for the duration of the night.

Jensen regaled Misha with stories from his career, while Misha reciprocated with tales from his travels. Misha had a quick wit, throwing in snarky comments with a deadpan face that had Jensen throwing back his head, his entire body vibrating with surprised laughter. He also turned out to be an excellent mimic, speaking in various accents. He had Jensen wiping tears from his eyes for a full five minutes when he spoke of his early adventures looking for a job, how he attempted to explain the usefulness of totally random skills on his resume, like bicycle touring and Tibetan throat singing, to serious faced interviewers.

Jensen laughingly told him how his own first resume had “horse-riding” as a skill, and Misha countered with a very serious face, “I can.. I can ride a horse.”

“Really?” Jensen asked disbelievingly.

“Sure,” Misha dead-panned. “As long as the animal is asleep, I’m fine.”

It took a startled second before Jensen reacted, doubling over in uncontrolled laughter once again.

Jensen isn’t entirely sure, because Alfie kept sending servers with tequila shots and beers through the evening, but there may have been some shuffled singing and dancing, as Misha tried to demonstrate something called Appalachian Clogging, with Jensen linking arms with him and joining in.

He has no recollection of what they ate or even if they did eat, but he vaguely remembers Misha mentioning pizza, so they must have eaten at some point. Maybe. 

So, he may have blacked out, okay! But he hasn’t had this much fun in years.

The beeping from the coffee machine demands Jensen’s attention, and he realises he’s been smiling like a goof as he reminisced. He shakes his head fondly before pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

The mere thought of Misha successfully pulls him out of his earlier dark mood, and he feels a spring in his step as he showers and dresses before going down to the cafe for breakfast.

Jensen is much earlier than usual and the valley beyond the balcony is still blanketed by the early morning mist, giving it a surreal look. The breakfast attendant recommends eating indoors, since the balcony could still be icy from the overnight frost, and Jensen finds a table close to the wide windows to enjoy the view.

As he eats, he checks his phone for messages and emails. He grins happily, there’s a text from Misha that he must have sent after they parted. It’s too early to respond yet, so he scrolls through his emails, replying to some work stuff from Benny, mainly about interviews that some magazines had requested. 

Jensen isn’t ready to be questioned just yet, and tells Benny to hold the reporters off until the filming. There are a couple of emails from his family, wishing him luck on the new venture and he replies to all of them, reassuring them that he is fine and enjoying the break. He attaches some pictures he has taken of the views and some selfies with the beautiful valley in the backdrop.   

He feels much lighter than he has in recent months and reminds himself to thank Deepak for taking him to the restaurant.

 

 

When Misha reaches home after waving goodbye to a pleasantly buzzed Jensen, he feels a wave of affection for the man who he spent the evening with. They exchanged numbers before parting and impulsively Misha fires off a quick text before chiding himself for being a sap as he changes and goes to bed.

_Misha: 0.45 a.m._

_Hi Jensen. Hope you reached the hotel safely. I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you._

 

Misha doesn’t check his phone until he finishes his morning run and yoga routine and is pleasantly surprised to see a reply from Jensen. 

_Jensen: 08.30 a.m._

_Hey Misha. Me too. Thanks to you I haven’t laughed this much in years! :)_

_Misha: 08.35 a.m._

_You’re welcome._

Misha wants to ask Jensen his plans for the day, but maybe that sounds over eager or pushy? He decides to just send a generic message. 

_Misha: 08.35 a.m._

_So what are you doing today?_

Jensen must have been checking for a reply, because his phone beeps to signal an incoming message almost instantly.

_Jensen: 08.35 a.m._

_Not sure yet. Maybe drive to one of the tourist spots, as usual._

_Jensen: 08.35 a.m._

_Any suggestions?_

Misha thinks about this for a while. Jensen had mentioned that he had gone to most of the scenic places nearby already during his week in Shimla, so those were out. Then he recalls their conversation about their favourite foods where Jensen said he was a typical Texas boy who liked his steak, and Misha has his inspiration.

_Misha: 08.37 a.m._

_Have you been on the Shimla railway yet?_  

_Misha: 08.37 a.m._

_I could take you, if you like._

_Fuck_! Did that sound too eager? What if Jensen feels pressured?

_Misha: 08.38 a.m._

_I’m sorry! That sounded presumptuous. I meant we could go._

Misha worries that he might have scared Jensen off when his phone rang, the screen lighting up with an incoming call from the actor himself.

“Hi Jensen! Good Morning.” Blame it on Misha being nervous, but his voice comes out unnaturally high, so he clears his throat self consciously.

“Hey Misha! What’s up?”

“Not much. I, uh, I hope I wasn’t out of line… I just meant…I mean, it's a beautiful journey by train, and since you mentioned you drove up from Chandigarh at night, you would have missed the sights. So if you like…um, we can have lunch in Chandigarh, if you want… ” He trails off, curbing the word vomit before it gets cringe-worthy.

“Sure, that sounds good.” Jensen seems all for it. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

“Um.. Okay. I can be at the Ridge in about half an hour,” Misha informs him, and they decide to meet near the parking lot at 9.30.

At 9.15 Misha pauses in his pacing at the entrance to the parking lot, where he waits for Jensen to pick him up. He stamps his feet on the ground a few times to drive away the morning chill creeping into his bones. He rubs his gloved hands, blowing on them in an attempt to warm up. Serves him right for being an overeager son of a bitch and getting here fifteen minutes earlier than needed. 

At least he had the forethought to wear his sherpa jacket over his long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He squints at the horizon where a watery sun tries valiantly to disperse the morning mist clinging to the green conifers that rise majestically on the lower Himalayan slopes.

He really hopes it clears up soon; some days the mist thickens and turns into a fog lower in the mountains, at times reducing visibility to mere meters. It wouldn’t be a problem if he were travelling down on his own. He is used to being stuck in Chandigarh when that happens, but he generally stays over at Vicki’s overnight if the fog persists past evening. He doubts Jensen would be comfortable with that and he really really wants this to go well.

See, the thing is, when Misha falls for someone, he falls hard, and he falls fast.

Its no wonder then, that he had proposed to Vicki, author Victoria Vantoch now, in their sophomore year in high school. He serenaded her romantically (he thought) with a poem he had written in English class. About _her nose_. Thank god, she had the good sense to turn him down gently, she probably understood his heart better than he did. That didn’t prevent them from indulging in some good times. Apart from being the recipient of his virginity, Vicki was also Misha’s first kiss…with a female at least. Technically his first kiss had been with his other best friend, Darius, when they were twelve and Misha had asked him out on a pizza date. Although he isn’t sure if kissing your best friend counts as a “first kiss”, but still.

Anyway, the point stands. Misha is quick to fall for someone he lets in, though there aren’t many he does. Despite his quick wit and apparent charm, he is an introvert. He doesn’t open up readily. Oh he chats with people, even flirts outrageously, but it is a surface deep persona, a shield to protect the man inside, the one that loves unconditionally, trusts implicitly, and that, as he has painfully discovered, shatters. Easily.

But Jensen! Jensen wormed his way in, in the space of an evening. And Misha is already falling, hell, _has_ fallen for the handsome green-eyed fucker almost instantly, the minute he saw him hesitating at the entrance to the bar yesterday. Jensen looked so utterly lost and alone, that Misha felt a surge of protectiveness when he saw him, and thanks his lucky stars for not backing away slowly as had been his first instinct on learning the man’s profession.

Because Jensen? He has a wry sense of humour, and a confident charm. At the same time, he has a gentleness in his eyes, and his face lights up when he smiles, the expression travelling from his lips to the crinkles around his eyes, and…well, Jensen is… _perfect_. Misha is unable to stop the sigh that escapes.

In short, Misha is fucked. Totally, irrevocably, royally screwed.

He looks up at the sound of an approaching vehicle and sees the car he had put Jensen in last night. He feels his heart jump in his chest, thumping faster, and without any effort on his part, a huge grin blossoms on his face as he waves to get the driver’s attention.

As the car comes to a stop a few feet from him, Misha physically restrains himself from rushing over while he waits for the actor to alight from the vehicle. He is pleasantly surprised to see Jensen emerge from the front passenger seat instead of the rear, and he mentally notches up one more point in favour of the green eyed man. As Misha moves closer, he gapes at the perfection that is Jensen. No doubt he looked irresistible the previous evening, but viewed in broad daylight, he is breath-taking. His green eyes absorb and magnify the green of the valley in the background, the faint morning sunlight highlighting flecks of gold amidst the green. A slight pink flush, perhaps due to the cold, defines his sharp cheekbones. Being on public display almost constantly seems to have ingrained into his body language a confident, roguish bearing, so that he walks like he owns the world. His clothes drape his magnificent body to perfection, the colours and styles blend flawlessly and complement each other to make one outfit, rather than standing out as separate items. Today he is dressed in faded blue jeans and a grey plaid button up left open at the neck to reveal a grey t-shirt that enhances the green of his eyes. Misha stares (he may have had his mouth open in awe, but he hopes Jensen is too far to notice that tiny detail) and surreptitiously ignores the devil on his shoulder when it pushes a metaphoric pen and paper into his hands to compose poetry.

As Jensen comes forward, Misha resists the urge to hug him, scolding himself, because well, just because he is a love-struck fool _does not_ mean he should get overly familiar with the poor man, scaring him away completely. Yet a handshake feels too awkwardly formal after their time together, so he settles for a single wave of his hand. “Hi!”

Yup, that’s Misha. Eloquent, really.

Misha does not, most utterly definitely DOES NOT, jump for joy like a teenage fan when Jensen pulls him into a one-armed hug. “Hey Misha! So what’s the plan? I’m in your hands for the day.”

Oh, if only Misha had him in his hands for even an hour, forget an entire day, he would compose verses that would leave Homer weeping in shame… 

“Well I thought I might have a nap, while you hum old folk tunes…” _Shut up, Misha! What is wrong with you?_

Apparently Jensen finds that funnier than a barrel full of monkeys, because there he is, head thrown back to expose the column of his neck (No, Misha is not looking, thank you. Kindly shut the fuck up) as his entire body shakes with laughter, the gorgeous sound doing things to Misha that usually take an hour of porn and some very enthusiastic fondling. This is going to be one _looong_ trip for the first born of Mrs. Tippens-Krushnic.

Jensen introduces him to Deepak, his chauffeur, and Misha greets him in Hindi to put him at ease. Between them, they discuss the best way to manage the trip, continuing to converse in Hindi. Misha knows Jensen might feel awkward or left out, but there IS a method to his madness, and he requests Deepak not to disclose the full extent of the plan. They agree that going down to Chandigarh via train would be complicated since there is no reliable commute, apart from the State Transport buses, between the railway station at Kalka and the main city of Chandigarh, where Misha hopes they can have lunch before returning to Shimla.  

Deepak suggests they drive down to Chandigarh, and once Jensen and Misha have finished their lunch, Deepak can drop them at the Kalka railway station, and bring the car back up to Shimla on his own.

 

 

The drive down to Chandigarh is vastly different from when Jensen came to up to Shimla the first time. For one thing, this time he is awake.

Technically he had been awake when Deepak was pointing out the sites then, but he had been so out of it and just waiting for the journey to finally end that he had retained very little of what he heard. Also, the climb up after passing Kalka was for the most part in darkness, so his ability to pay attention had become moot. 

This time, on the other hand, he is next to a fucking sex-god, and Jensen is questioning his ability to pay attention now as well. Perhaps he is destined to never actually see the scenery. Yup, that has to be it.

Of course Misha is completely unaware of his distraction as he points out various interesting sites on the drive. At one point he leans across Jensen, one hand resting on the seat behind him, to point out the window from Jensen’s side of the car at a natural waterfall on the side of the road and Jensen dies and floats to heaven on a cloud of heady scents, all citrus aftershave (Jensen is still undecided on which he likes better - the scruff from last night or the clean shaven smoothness of the killer jawline) and coconut shampoo combined with something underneath that smells inherently Misha. So he may have inhaled deeply, just to be sure he identifies the scents correctly. For science. He is acutely aware of the warmth emanating from the man next to him, and his fingertips itch with the need to touch. At one point, the sun shining into the car from Misha’s side of the window bathes his golden skin in an ethereal glow, highlighting the strong profile of the man’s face, and Jensen has to literally clench his hands into fists to stop from reaching out and just touching.

Eventually, Misha’s voice and his commentary, interspersed with his own brand of snark allow Jensen to relax. This does not mean he isn’t constantly aware of his own steadily growing desire, or Misha’s insane magnetism, but it simmers gently on the back burner, rather than being a roaring flame consuming his every thought. Jensen pushes his boundaries, giving in to his desire to touch, sometimes placing a hand at Misha’s shoulder to catch his attention, or resting his arm on the seat behind him as they talk. There are times when they catch themselves grinning at each other: when one of them says something funny, green eyes look into blue and linger, each of them reluctant to be the first to look away.

Misha’s stories of the place are interwoven with his personal experiences. Jensen is humbled by the sheer variety of experiences Misha has accumulated in a life that is not much longer than his own. When Misha says he turned forty-two the previous year, Jensen may or may not have made a cheesy comment about how that makes Misha the answer to “life, the universe, everything”. This earns him a big gummy smile and twinkle in the eye that Jensen wishes he could capture and keep with him forever. So he does. He takes out his phone and clicks a picture.

It turns out that when he was growing up, Misha had at times been homeless, and the kindness shown to his family one memorable Christmas is what inspired him to believe in the power of small acts of kindness rather than grand gestures. It is apparent that Vicki and Misha inspired each other towards charity work and helping others, both of them just this side of quirky, and not really giving a damn about others’ opinions. They collaborated on beach cleanups, collection drives for shelters or orphanages, they roped in friends, family and colleagues to spread community spirit and good cheer. Of course, Jensen knows many people in the world do such things, but what sets Misha’s and Vicki’s philanthropy apart is that they do it with little to no fanfare. The only people who are aware of their actions are those whose lives they impacted for that moment in time, both the givers and receivers.

About halfway through the journey, Misha seems to realise that he has been speaking continuously for the better part of an hour, without any interruptions from Jensen. He stops mid-sentence, flushing in embarrassment, and looks abashedly at his fellow passenger. He is disconcerted to find that Jensen has been listening attentively, small fond smile dancing on his lips, as he rests his cheek on a palm, propped up by an elbow on the backrest of the seat.

“I…I’m sorry!” Misha mutters. “I tend to get carried away sometimes.”

“Nah, man. I was…” Because social norms indicated that it may be too soon to say what Jensen really feels, he deflects. “You’ve lived a very interesting life. It’s...Please, go on.”

Jensen listens in rapt fascination as Misha continues to regale him with hilarious yet moving stories from his travels within India as well as across the globe. Jensen wonders how someone whose personality is so…big… can be content with being bound to a tiny town in what is perhaps the smallest corner of the world. Besides, on behalf of the world, Misha being cloistered away is, Jensen feels, a gross injustice on humankind, really, and as a member of humankind who would never have crossed paths with Misha if not for the idiosyncratic eccentricities of a geriatric ex-pat, he feels unfairly cheated by the laws of geography and circumstance.

Essential clarification on this matter is urgently required.

“Don’t you ever feel.. I don’t know, out of place. I mean I get that you’ve been here a long time. But, man, I was here for what, six days, before I was itching for the comfort of familiarity. Did you ever, I don’t know feel that way at all? Like, in the beginning?”

“Hmmm. I suppose, I haven’t felt that way for a long time now, I mean, this,” he waves a hand in a circular motion, indicating the world around them, “this is home now.

“Although I get what you’re saying. Initially, when I first sort of experimented the ‘live here’ thing, I was fucking terrified. Don’t get me wrong, the people here are the kindest, most polite people I have met in practically my entire life, but I wasn’t a ‘friend’, and a duck out of water probably felt more at home than I did then.”

At this point, Deepak coughs lightly to get their attention. “Excuse me, Jensen. Mr. Misha, we are almost at Kalka. Do you want to stop to freshen up at the Pinjore Gardens cafe before we carry on?”

The time on the phone shows its nearly half an hour past noon. He looks at Misha, who certainly has a better idea of how much further they need to go.

“If we’re gonna have lunch in Chandigarh, there’s no point in stopping at the cafe. It's only another hour and a half to Chandigarh anyway. Unless you need a…, um, you need, you know, a loo break or something.” 

“Loo break? What are you? A British schoolgirl?”

“Ok, Mr. Manly McBurlyson, you wanna take a piss?” Misha counters.

Deepak giggles, hiding his lips with one hand, but quickly pretends to cough to hide it.

“Nah, man. I’m good. Although Deepak, I wouldn’t mind stopping at that _chaiwalla_ if we haven’t passed him yet.”

Misha looks at him in astonishment. “Really? You want to drink chai? Roadside chai?”

“What! Um, Deepak’s been driving all morning… and..I just mean… he may need a break, that’s all.”

An amused sceptical look and an eyebrow raised sardonically, Misha scoffs, “Sure!”

“Ok, ok, it's a guilty pleasure, all right.” Jensen pouts. He points an accusatory finger at the now fully grinning Deepak. “Blame him, he’s the one that got me addicted.” 

Misha’s only response is a loud guffaw of laughter, as Deepak slows the car. “No… no, it's fine, the chai stall is only another ten minutes or so away.”

And then he joins Misha in laughing, both natives looking highly amused, as Jensen blows a raspberry at them, crosses his arms, huffing in fake-annoyance, and proceeds to sulk like a two year old.

 

 

“Misha, I love you. And I say this from the bottom of my heart!” Jensen declares, his right hand on his heart.

His eyes shine with excitement, incredulously looking from the bacon and cheese covered steak on his plate, served with homestyle fries and steamed vegetables, to Misha’s grinning face and back. 

Misha holds up his drink, a spicy margarita made of Jose Cuervo, Triple Sec and jalapeños, in a silent toast, mesmerised by how easily Jensen’s emotions dance in his eyes.

“But… How..?” Jensen looks flabbergasted. “I thought beef was banned in India. I’m sure that’s what Deepak told me. Shit! Are we breaking the law?” He looks around, conspiratorially dropping his voice to a whisper.

Misha can’t help but laugh. “Nooo. I mean, yes, beef is banned in most of India and cow slaughter is considered illegal almost everywhere. But some states do allow the import of beef for licensed restaurants. The only stipulation is that they are not allowed to serve it rare, so if that’s how you like your steak I apologise.” 

“I don’t care! And thank you! Although you do realise that you are stuck with bringing me here every chance I get during my time here, right?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Jensen.” Misha smiles, suddenly feeling inexplicably shy. “Dig in.”

Jensen makes a big show of cutting into his steak and Misha watches warmly. It quickly turns into a different kind of heat as Jensen moans around his first mouthful in appreciation. He hides the flush spreading across his face behind his glass.

Jensen’s tongue peeks out to lick a drop of sauce from the corner of his lips, and Misha has to sternly remind himself that they are in a public place. In India. Where public displays of affection between even heterosexual couples are frowned upon. In order to resist the impulse to reach across and wipe the errant sauce with his thumb, he busies his hands to start on his own lunch, a herbed salmon fillet served on a bed of tangy tomato rice, drizzled with a honey-dijon cream sauce. 

As they eat, Misha catalogues the expressions on Jensen’s face. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the elegant column of his throat as it stretches when he throws back his head in unreserved laughter, his entire body vibrating in mirth. When Misha makes a sarcastic comment, Jensen has this way of smirking, his lips starting with a slight pout before one corner tugs up, a smile that said _I call bullshit yet I can’t help finding it ridiculously funny_ , the mirth in his eyes tinged with an inexplicable fondness that Misha has yet to fathom. The way he flushes to the tips of his ears, highlighting the many many freckles dotting the face, when Misha says something flirtatious.

Misha could fill entire notebooks composing verses in praise of this man, but he is at heart an environmentalist, and _someone_ has to think of the trees.

Jensen shares many stories of his acting experiences, including one hilarious instance in a strip club when he was a young impressionable actor.

“So there was this scene in a strip club, right. And one of the strippers was supposed to greet my character in a ‘friendly’ manner. And the director, he decided to audition that part on the spot. So there I am, all of twenty two years old, and a line of scantily clad ladies, you know high heels, big hair, big everything, coming up to me and trying to be as friendly as they can.”

Misha tries to imagine a young Jensen in that situation, and can’t resist laughing. “And had your parents told you that when you grew up, you would go to Los Angeles, and be paid to have strippers give you lap dances…you would have thought, ‘Yeah that sounds like a good career move’.”

“Nah, I’d rather have gone to college,” Jensen deadpans flawlessly.

Misha is conscious of how he hogged the conversation on the drive down, so he allows Jensen to take the lead now, perfectly content to listen to his gruff voice talking about whatever he feels comfortable sharing about his life.

“So, what about you? Who is Jensen Ackles when he is not being an actor?”

Jensen shrugs a shoulder self-consciously, “There’s not much that you can’t find out through Google. You mean you haven’t done that yet?”

“I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

“I mean, well, I started modelling pretty early, since I was four, actually. You know children’s clothing catalogues and stuff. Sometimes it feels like my life is a series of gigs from then till now, with little time in between. Even school was sandwiched between sporadic jobs. Unfortunately, that meant I was the popular kid that everyone wanted to say they knew, you know. It was, um, uncomfortable.” He pauses, a wistful look in his eyes, and Misha imagines a lonely little boy, alone in a crowd.

“So much so, that I dreamed of becoming a physical therapist after school.” He huffs a bit, a derisive sound. “In fact, it’s only recently, after the success of my TV show that I’ve started becoming comfortable with the fame and the fans, the constant attention, you know. Being more open about my personal life. I have Jared to thank for that.”

“So why this movie? Why India?” 

“Um...this is where your Google-fu would have helped, you know?” His cheeks pink in embarrassment.

“You don’t have to…” Misha offers. Jensen clearly seems uncomfortable talking about this, whatever it is.

“Nah...it’s okay. It’s… actually, I… I came out as bi recently. And... I needed to get out of the scrutiny. You know, constant hounding by the press. I… I guess I don’t take kindly to my privacy being invaded...not all the time, at least.”

Misha’s respect for the man grows. Most actors would have taken something like this as an opportunity to grab the limelight, milking the situation for maximum publicity. And here was this man, so humble in his stardom, so amazingly down-to-earth, that he was hiding from the circus in an obscure little town no one in Hollywood had probably heard of.

“That’s...wow! That’s extremely brave of you, Jensen! Especially in the current political climate in America. If ever I have been downright grateful that I chose to live here, when Trump was elected was probably it.”

“But...isn’t... _it_..against the law here? At least, from what I read.”

“You mean homosexuality?”

Jensen nods. 

“Technically, yes. But socially, no one really cares. Especially in tourist areas, people tend to turn a blind eye, I guess. You know, unless you make out in public or something. But then, they frown upon any PDA, even between _married_ couples, so it's not really discrimination for being gay, I guess.” Misha hesitates a little, but considering Jensen has been so open with him, he adds meaningfully, “I know I haven’t had any problems.”

Jensen looks up from his plate in shock, meeting Misha’s eyes, then his lips widen in a pleased smile as he nods.

They talk some more about Jensen’s family (one brother, one sister, conservative republican parents), just a typical American boy-next-door apart from the little divergence of being a gorgeous sought-after actor.

All too soon, they finish eating, and after Misha pays the bill ( _No, I insist, It’s my treat._ ) they make their way out to where Deepak IS waiting.

 

 

Jensen follows Misha into the tiny railway station of Kalka, weaving their way through surprisingly sparse crowds, to the old fashioned ticket booth to purchase their tickets. Red shirted coolies line the platform and passengers wait for the arrival of the next train

“This may be the first place in India where there are no crowds,” Jensen observes. 

“Most people these days take a taxi up. The regulars, traders and workers for example, tend to take the state buses, they’re cheaper.” Misha leads Jensen past the main part of the railway station.

“This end of the station is for the normal broad gauge trains, which connect to Chandigarh and Delhi. The Shimla train is on narrow gauge, since the British built it, way back in, um…1890’s, 1896 or ’98, I think.” 

“Wow, that’s old! Oh my God, Misha it looks like a toy train!’ Jensen exclaims as they round the corner to the correct part of the station. “Is that…is it safe?” he asks tentatively, looking skeptically at the ancient looking locomotive waiting on the tracks.

“Of course it is. I actually prefer taking the train instead of driving down. I find it… comforting. You’ll see. Come on. It’s nearly departure time.”

They stop at a convenience store for some bottles of water, sodas and a few snacks to stave off the munchies during the journey, and join other passengers carting suitcases bursting to the seams in preparation for a holiday in a cold climate. Misha counts off the cars until they reach the correct one, explaining, “I couldn’t get first class seating since it needs to be reserved in advance, but you’ll get a better feel for it in the general compartment anyway. Unlike other trains, the unreserved seating in this train is not crowded to overflowing.”

He catches Jensen’s worried look and immediately reassures him, “Don’t worry. The chances of anyone recognising you there are less than in first class. I doubt any of these people watch American shows, anyway.”

They take their seats towards the middle of the car, where Misha guides Jensen to the window seat before sitting in the aisle seat himself.

As they wait for the train to roll, Misha tells Jensen about the history of the route. 

“You know, this track was an engineering marvel in those days. Actually, the entire railway network is perhaps one of the more significant positive influences the British Raj had on India, but this… this was their jewel in the crown! The entire 96 km line is dotted with 102 tunnels and 864 bridges! Imagine the manpower it must have required, overcoming gruelling mountainous terrain to lay the track at this height.”

“No, there are 107,” Jensen says distractedly, as he looks out the window.

“What?” 

“Tunnels, not 102…107.”

“Uh…no, Jensen! It’s definitely 102. Believe me, I’ve counted!”

Jensen gets increasingly agitated as Misha talks.

“Well, I’ve counted too! And I _know_ it’s 107!” Jensen suddenly shouts, his hand going to his temple, breathing heavily.

“WHAT?!!” Misha looks shocked, round blue eyes staring at him, “What..What the fuck are you talking about? I thought you said you haven’t been on this train…How...?!”

Misha’s shocked voice causes Jensen to turn around from where he is still looking out the window. He can’t understand why Misha looks so spooked. “Of course I haven’t been.. Wait, what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Misha looks even more perplexed, and his voice is gentle when he speaks. “Um…Jensen? How do you know there are 107 tunnels on this route?”

Misha is looking at him like one does a skittish animal and Jensen scrunches his forehead in confusion. “I…I don’t…What did I say?” he whispers in horror.

“Um…You nearly _tore my head off_ that you had counted the number of tunnels and that there are 107.”

“Uh..I didn’t.. I…” Jensen tries to grasp at the thought, but it fades away like a wisp of smoke, “I’ve never… I swear. I don’t know… How… how can I know how many tunnels there are?”

Jensen takes a few deep breaths as the train rumbles to life beneath them, drawing comfort from the mechanical whirring as the car starts rolling out of the station. 

Misha is looking at him strangely, his eyes squinting in confusion, a curious tilt to his head as if trying to look past his skin and through to the synapses firing in his brain.

Before Misha can reply, a group of teenagers raucously enters the compartment looking for empty seats and the moment is lost.

The train clears the city outskirts of Kalka and is chugging along the climb into the hills, the afternoon sun shining bright and clear on the green slopes. Jensen goes back to staring out the window, pensive, confused thoughts clouding his brain, and tries to lose himself in the scenery passing by.

He tries to recapture what made him shout out in conviction earlier. He had been so sure that Misha had it wrong. Where did that conviction come from? Had he read something in one of the brochures or travel websites? That seems the most logical explanation. Except he said that he _counted_ the tunnels. Which was one sandwich short of a picnic.

He wills his mind to calm down, the view helping to ground his agitation much as it had on the first day he looked out of his hotel window. The train makes its way through the hills, passing small villages and hamlets along the way, where dusty sun darkened children stand by the tracks waving at the passengers as the train whizzes past, some running along with the train until their tiny forms get left behind. Jensen feels his skin prickle at the intensity of Misha’s gaze, who keeps glancing at him a few times, but he is too embarrassed by what happened earlier to turn around and meet the questioning or concerned look in those blue eyes. 

Here he was hoping to voice a definite attraction to the man that has built over the past twenty four hours, and now he’s gone and ruined any chance he might have had.

 

 

Misha is worried. Obviously, what Jensen said earlier shocked him, but what is more worrying is how it has affected Jensen. 

Since he met him yesterday, Jensen has been a joyous ray of sunshine (mostly). Sometimes awkwardly cute, others devastatingly charming, but always smiling. Now he sits morosely looking out the window, staring vacantly at the passing scenery as he studiously ignores Misha’s attempts to get his attention.

Misha is terrified, because he can feel that something significant has been happening since the day he met the green eyed actor. Not just to him, but evidently to the younger man as well. The sense of familiarity that each feels with the other could be explained away as instant chemistry, but what cannot be rationally explained is Jensen’s reaction to Misha last night, calling him “Cas” in that tone of voice. That name sent chills down his spine, and he could sense that Jensen was disturbed as well. 

Of course, he doesn’t claim to actually know the man all that well, and this sombre broodiness could be a regular occurrence in the actor’s life, but from what Misha has seen of him so far, it doesn’t seem likely. Unsure of how to cross the sudden uncomfortable chasm that has opened up between them, Misha looks around for something that can help distract Jensen from his thoughts.

His eyes land on the group of youngsters in the coach with them, who are animatedly playing _Antakshri_ , a singing game popular in India. His face lights up as an idea hits him. He looks over at Jensen, still looking determinedly out the window. He gets up from his seat and walks over to the youngsters to have a quick word with them.

 

 

For the past hour, Jensen has been studiously ignoring Misha’s attempts to engage his attention, resolutely looking out at the passing scenery rather than at the blue-eyed man next to him.

He becomes aware of loud music being played in the coach, and looks around in annoyance only to find that Misha is no longer next to him. Instead, the teenagers that settled in their compartment earlier are dancing in the aisle to some Bollywood song playing on one of their phones along with a certain tall dark haired companion who dances to the catchy beat of the music, his motions fluid and graceful. Jensen stares, riveted. The afternoon light from the train windows highlights the golden bronze of his skin, as he grins at his companions. He must sense Jensen’s eyes on him, because he turns and looks straight at Jensen and his eyes light up. Misha sways over to Jensen and holds out a hand, beckoning with his fingers for Jensen to join him. Jensen is reluctant to say the least, but he allows himself to be pulled out of his seat, and follows Misha to the group of youngsters.

Despite the unfamiliar words, the music has a catchy upbeat tempo. Jensen is unused to the movements of the dance and supremely self conscious as the group around him dances with abandon. He tries to imitate Misha’s movements, flushing at the realisation of how awkward he must look but then Misha places his hands Jensen’s hips to guide his movements. Jensen startles at the intimate gesture, but can’t deny a surge of excitement at the touch. He looks up into Misha’s face, finding the blue eyes already on him, with a look of amusement as well as a spark of interest. Jensen feels his dark thoughts slipping away in the face of Misha’s laughter, and he gives in to the man, letting his hands guide him into intricate hip and shoulder movements.

One song changes to another, a long incomprehensible medley of thumping melodious music, so different yet somehow familiar, and both Jensen and Misha are flushed and sweaty despite the cold. At some point they both drift intimately closer, and Jensen should be panicking at the situation, especially in such a public environment but all he feels in this moment is a sense of inexplicable rightness. That he is meant to be here, in Misha’s arms, and stay.

When the music stops, finally, the teenagers around them clap loudly, high fiving each other and laughing in delight, as Jensen holds Misha’s hands at their side, and Misha just looks into his eyes, slightly out of breath, the blue of his eyes intensified by the happiness and a heat that simmered in the background earlier now roaring like a flame. Misha squeezes his hands gently, a soft smile playing on his lips, as he points his chin in the direction of their seats. Jensen can only nod, winded from the dancing and breathless (not from _just_ the dancing), so they thank the teens as they return to their seats.

When they sit down, it is instinctively closer, as if neither man is able let go of the bubble of intimacy created by the dancing. Jensen feels the heat of Misha’s shoulder and thigh press into his own, his hand still clasped tightly in Misha’s, both resting on their joint thighs. His gaze strays to their locked hands, and stays there, fascinated by the contrast in their skins, in the shape of their alternating fingers, at how they fit together, no gaps visible, as though each hand is meant to complete, to complement, to fill the empty spaces of the other.

 

 

Misha sighs happily, resting his head on the neck rest behind him, letting the breeze cool his heated neck and face. He has successfully diverted Jensen’s attention from whatever was troubling him and the man he met last night is back in full force. The urge to pull him in, to bury his nose in the flushed neck glittering with a sheen of sweat, to lap at the moisture that pools at the juncture between neck and shoulder before it is absorbed by the man’s t-shirt, is strong and Misha has to physically restrain himself from giving in.

Nothing can restrain him however, from fantasising about just that in the confines of his mind. Considering this is _his_ mind, however, the scenario changes rapidly, the activity responsible for the sweat changing from dancing to something else entirely. No less delicious in its conclusion, though.

Jensen goes still beside him, and not wanting to interrupt the extremely pleasant goings-on in his head (he thinks so, and it is his head, so there), Misha merely rolls his head towards Jensen, to see what caught his attention. Jensen is staring down at their legs, and following his gaze, Misha finds the source of his fascination, which happens to be their joint hands.

“Jensen?” he calls softly. “You ok?”

“Hmm.” Comes the whispered response, before Jensen clears his throat.

“What are we doing, Mish?” he breathes, so softly that Misha wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t paying attention, then Jensen looks up, his gem-like gaze piercing MIsha’s very soul, as he shakes their linked hands once. “This. What is happening here?”

Misha can’t look away from the man if he even wanted to, so he doesn’t.

“I…”

Just as Misha begins speaking, they are enveloped in darkness, the train passing through one the many tunnels, and Misha takes that as divine intervention to lean forward and kill two birds with one stone: 1. Throw the last of his reservations to the wind, and 2. Capture Jensen’s lips in a kiss, something he has been longing to do since the first time he saw him. (Actually the second time, the first time he’d been too busy hyperventilating, but if anyone wants to be picky, they are welcome to lodge a formal protest with the non-existent complaints department)

Misha hopes the tunnel they are passing through is a long one, because the instant their lips connect, a spark is ignited between them, Jensen’s breath hitching in a gasp before those perfect cupid’s bow lips seal against his, pliant, warm, _perfect_.

Misha is helpless, hopeless, hapless. His body moves involuntarily, drawing closer to Jensen, as his hands come up to hold Jensen’s face. It seems the actor is on the same page, and his now free hands choose to place themselves on Misha’s shoulders, wrapping around from under his arms, one large palm cupping his nape, the other fisting in his jacket.

The train lurches suddenly over the tracks, causing Jensen to fall back and bump against the side panel, and Misha goes with him, unable to break away, to part from this connection. Their changed position means Misha is pressed tighter against Jensen’s body, and the warm press of his muscular chest is so different yet so unfathomably familiar that Misha cannot suppress the groan that escapes his throat. The sound causes Jensen to pull him in closer, his thumb pressing in harder at Misha’s pulse point below the ear, and Misha is on the verge of losing himself. He never wants this to stop, he couldn’t bear for it to stop, he would _die…_. Misha gasps and pulls away.

His head pounds, something urgent knocking behind his eyes, wanting to be let in. Relentless, it scratches and scrapes at his consciousness, but he is unable to respond, he doesn’t know _how_ . He doesn’t realise that he has let go, his hands leave Jensen’s face to clutch at his own hair, willing the pain to _just please stop_ . Stop for a second so he can _think_!

This is the point where he usually spirals, sliding into a panic attack but then the cabin is suddenly bathed in brilliant light, as if angels themselves are granting revelation. In reality it is the train emerging from the tunnel, but it brings Jensen’s flushed face back into view, his eyes dark and pupils lust-blown, and Misha feels grounded. Instantly the pounding stops, the long drop arrested. Misha feels disoriented, as if he jumped off a cliff expecting a long fall and instead learnt to fly.

The confused look on Jensen’s face, the quirk of his questioning brow sobers Misha, makes him look away for a moment before turning back to the actor helplessly. He wants to explain this but can’t find the words.

Jensen watches him for a moment, then drops his head sheepishly. Misha thinks he’s irreparably fucked this up, that Jensen is hurt and drawing away from him, but then his thoughts scramble when Jensen shakes his bowed head slightly, looks up at Misha from beneath his lashes. A small smile plays on his kiss-plumped lips, reflected in the fond look in his eyes as Jensen takes Misha’s hand in his once again.

“Jen...” Misha says, mouth gone dry.

But Jensen’s smile just grows broader, he squeezes Misha’s had once, reassuringly, before facing toward the window, looking out.

Jensen never lets go of Misha’s hand for the rest of the journey.  

 


	5. ACT IV: VIRAHA: SEPARATION

 

__

 

_There is a lesson in every grain of sand….but if you don’t learn, you may have to reincarnate._

_~Mahabharata_

 

  
  
                                                                

To Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esq.

Adler & Morningstar

Attorneys-at-Law

Cincinnati, OH                                                                                                                                                                                     March 5, 1943

 

Dear Sam,

 

I’m writing this on the train from Bombay to Delhi so you’ll have to forgive the handwriting.

We’ve been shipped to India (I know you’re squealing, Bitch, and yes I’ll collect post-cards to send you) to be a part of the new SEAC in the Burma-India theatre. We’re going to Shimla in the foothills of the Himalayas. Its supposed to be colder than a witch's tit in winter, apparently. 

I have no idea how long we’re gonna be there for, but if the previous deployments are anything to go by, the action seems to be moving on two fronts simultaneously. There’s the Kraut/Italians in Europe and the Japs/Ruskies creating trouble in this part of the world.

I’ll write you in detail once we get there and I know more.

Love,

Dean.

 

P.S. We reached Shimla. You would love it Sammy! It is beautiful. Although a bit quiet and small for my taste.

P.P.S. There are a few “entertainment areas” of a bser nature in Kalka, and many of the soldiers travel down on their sorties to let their hair down. Can you believe there are 107 tunnels the railway passes through on the way from Kalka to Shimla? 

P.P.P.S. I counted. There was a drinking game….and that’s all I’m gonna say about it.

  


****

**June 3, 1943**

 

Shimla’s main road, The Mall, was a popular (and only) social centre point for the British soldiers and diplomats at the summer capital. Today it held an air of festivity and celebration. As Castiel stood, stoic and stiff in ceremony, at his place next to the wedding carriage of his friend Captain Balthazar Roche and his lovely bride, Anna Milton. He let his gaze roam to take in the atmosphere and the crowds gathered to wish the happy couple.

The bride and groom exited the ornate doors of the historic Christ Church. Its tall spires reached high towards a clear blue sky, its yellow facade taking on a golden glow in the bright mid morning sun. As guests gathered at the doors, raining rice and flower petals (a local addition to the tradition) to bestow blessings and good wishes on the couple, the soldiers of the Major’s unit created an honour guard for them. Their gleaming ceremonial swords held high to create a corridor for the newlyweds to walk through to the waiting wedding carriage. As a beaming Balth led his blushing bride and helped her into the flower bedecked coach, Castiel couldn’t suppress a delighted grin at the happiness that seemed to permeate into the very air around them. Just as Balth was about to climb in himself, he was approached by his superior, Major Adler, a portly balding officer who spoke with a perpetually nasal whine.

“Congratulations, Captain, to you and your beautiful bride,” he said, shaking hands with Balthazar.

“Thank you, Sir!”

“I suggest you consider Kashmir for the honeymoon. It is wonderful…” 

Castiel tuned out of the conversation as a young Indian girl broke away from the crowds lining the road. She held a beautiful handmade doll that was decorated in the red and gold garb and jewellery of an Indian bride. Just as she ran up to the carriage, one of the patrolling soldiers saw her and tried to stop her, roughly catching her by her arm. She cried out in pain and Castiel reacted.

“Hey! It’s alright, let her go!” He hated the way some of the British soldiers treated the locals.

In fluent Hindi, he called the girl to him. “You can come, little girl.”

The girl approached the carriage, her cheeks pinked by either the cold, crisp air or shyness. “I just want to give this gift to _Memsahib_.” 

“Go ahead,” Castiel smiled gently, “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

The girl’s smile brightened, nearly as blinding as the sun, as she held out her gift to Anna. “ _Memsahib_ , this is for you. It is for good luck,” she said, her eyes twinkling with happiness.

“ _Shukriya_ ,” Anna said, taking the offered gift. “It is beautiful!” She reverently touched the intricately patterned clothes and jewellery of the wooden doll, showing it to Balthy who was just joining her in the coach after finishing the conversation with his Major.

Castiel took that as his cue to climb onto his place at the footboard, “Ready for the reception, Balth?” he questioned his friend.

“Let’s go, Cassie, the sooner we get there, the faster I can take by lovely bride home and...ouff!” He exhaled loudly as Anna knocked a well-deserved elbow to his side. “What! You’re irresistible, my darling!” he exclaimed, as Castiel grinned and signalled the coach driver to move. If there was anyone that could noose his wayward friend, it was the feisty Anna.

Once the speeches and toasts were done with at the reception, Castiel found himself and his glass of whiskey a nice secluded corner to get intimate in. As happy as he was for his friend, the ceremony of the day had been taxing for several reasons. Not always the most socially adept, Castiel had been uncomfortable in the ceremonial spotlight that came with being the best friend and best man to the groom. Although Castiel could admit now, to himself, that seeing his friend’s happiness throughout the day had made him slightly melancholy.

Balthazar had been his best friend since they were at the Doon school in Dehradun. Despite being as different as chalk and cheese in personality, the two boys had bonded initially because they were a minority in a school that held predominantly students from prestigious Indian families who wanted a British style education for their children. However, as they grew their friendship became a closer bond, each complementing the other’s shortcomings, and together, they were an unstoppable force in academics and extracurricular activities.

Apart from the obvious fact that his best friend may be less accessible to Castiel with this new phase of his life, Balth was most likely going to be transferred to the proposed South East Asia Command, the coalition being set up to be in overall charge of Allied operations in the South-East Asian Theatre for the War. If everything went according to plan, Balthazar would be transferred out of Shimla as early as August. Since earlier in the year, Allied soldiers had already begun arriving in their hillside town for training and acclimatization exercises. As Castiel looked around, there was a mix of American, Dutch and Australian uniforms amongst the British khakis.

Castiel nursed the glass of whiskey that would be his companion for the night, as he looked at the couples twirling across the dance floor, the colourful ball gowns and glittering saris of the ladies creating a twinkling contrast in the warm lighting of the Novaks’ ballroom. He wished he could retire to the comforting silence of the library where...

“Hey. Anyone sitting here?” A warm, gruff voice drew Castiel’s attention from the dancers.

Castiel startled and blinked at the officer standing beside him. He was gorgeous, for lack of a better word: tall and tan and currently flashing a rather charming smile with delectably plump lips. Castiel had seen attractive men before but never one like this, one so effortlessly beautiful. His eyes were bright green and sparkling with amusement out from under long thick lashes. He had a perfect profile; a strong clean shaven jaw with a slender nose. His broad shoulders and impeccable build encased in an officer’s uniform that fit him like a second skin.

Castiel felt a flutter in his stomach gazing at the vision before him, something Castiel hadn’t allowed himself to experience since he was a teenager.

Realizing he’d been asked a question and yet never replied, he slowly shook his head. “No it’s…vacant.”

The stranger chuckled as he pulled out the adjoining chair, sitting his own glass on the table in front of him. “Guy could fall over waitin’ for you to state the obvious.”

His casual diction and the twang in his voice suggested an American origin, so Castiel allowed some lightness to soften his posture and tone.

Castiel snorted. “I wasn’t aware you needed my express permission to seat yourself.”

Green eyes smirked with a small shrug. “Wanted to make sure you were okay with me gettin’ in your personal space. You Brits are all posh and proper about that sh… stuff.” He amended, probably in acknowledgement of the decorum of stiff British aristocracy.

Castiel nodded. That actually made sense. “I do not mind.”

“Cool. I’m Dean by the way. Lieutenant Dean Winchester.” The man held out a hand.

“Castiel Novak. Pleased to meet you.” Castiel shook the offered hand, barely suppressing a shudder at the zing of electricity that shot through him as he felt the gun-calloused hand gripping his.

Dean, sadly, let go of his hand to pick up his glass and bring it to his mouth, as he surveyed the dance floor much as Castiel had been doing earlier. Castiel tried desperately not to stare at the perfectly shaped cupid’s bow lips wrap around the glass or the way the column of his throat moved as he swallowed.

Dean turned abruptly towards him, his lips turning up in a confident smirk as he caught Castiel turning his eyes away at the last minute. “So, Cas, bride or groom?”

Gabriel and Balth both tended to use diminutives of his unusual name, but they both insisted on calling him Cassie, which never failed to annoy Castiel. Cas, on the other hand, especially the cozy familiarity with which it was uttered, made something warm slither into place in his abdomen.

“Groom. Captain Roche is my friend. Well, best friend, actually.”

“Hmm. You must be tired, then.” Dean waggled his brows suggestively.

“From dancing with all the bridesmaids?”  Dean explained, rolling his eyes at Castiel’s puzzled frown.

“Um.. not really. I took my leave as soon as I did my duty dancing with the Maid of Honour. I’m not very...social.” Cas stuttered awkwardly.

“I’m surprised they let a delectable man like you get away, though,” Dean murmured, so softly that Castiel was sure that he had misheard.

“Um...I’m..I don’t...”

“I saw you, earlier,” Dean abruptly said. “Outside the church. When you helped that little girl.”

Castiel thought perhaps he didn’t approve of Castiel defending the “natives”, as a lot of the officers tended to refer to the locals, although he couldn't detect any hint of disapproval in the intensity of his look.

“She just wanted to give a gift. That soldier was being unnecessarily rough. ” He shrugged. “Sometimes the soldiers don’t realise…” He abruptly cut off. He had gotten into trouble before, voicing his opinion of how the soldiers treated the Indians never ended well. Especially if it got back to his older brother Michael, who was currently the Vicar at the Anglican Christ Church.

Dean turned back towards the room, his lips pursed thoughtfully, before he leaned in close, so close that Castiel could smell his cologne and whispered, “I think it was very nice of you.”

His left arm brushed Castiel’s shoulder as he moved back, Castiel could not stop his breath from hitching, as he stared into the other man’s green eyes, his own eyes wide. Dean bit his lower lip shyly, looking at Castiel from beneath almost feminine lashes and Castiel felt his own lips part in response, his tongue peeking out to soothe the sudden dryness.

Involuntarily, he breathed out the only thing he could think of, “Dean…”

The man in question looked steadily at Castiel, his eyes twinkling with amusement, his cheeks flushed, “You wanna get out of here?”

 

To,

Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esq.

WInchester & Harvelle Associates

Kansas City, MO                                                                                                                                                                       April 15, 1944

 

Dear Sammy,

 

It’s been some time since I last wrote you. How are you? How is the lawyering business, now that you and Jo have branched out on your own?

I know both of you have the guts and determination to make it. You were always the strong one of the two of us, and I don’t think anyone, even fate, has the balls to stand up to Joanna Beth Harvelle when she wants something.

I have been posted at Lucknow, which is in Central India, since March, but I will be back in Shimla  by the beginning of May. The new SAC, Lord Mountbatten, re-distributed the Allied force presence when he took over from General Wavell.

More importantly, I have been promoted!!

Yessir! You are now looking at Captain Dean Winchester of the South East Asian Command. Captain Roche has been promoted to Major, and I will be taking charge of a new unit in Shimla. I’ll be responsible for training the new Allied soldiers that are transferred to the SEAC from the various countries in the Alliance.   

I’m glad because that means I’ll be based at Shimla for a while. Gabriel, that’s Cas’ older brother, has offered for me to stay at the Novak Estate instead of at the barracks, which are also on the estate grounds. I want to take him up on the offer, but perhaps only when there are no active training troops under my care. It may cause too much tongue wagging, if you know what I mean!

In any case, Cas has been assigned to Lord Mountbatten’s private staff since the new year. Did you know his family have a tradition that the oldest son becomes a priest and the youngest one goes into the public service? Imagine having your life planned for you based solely on what order you were born!

Anyway, I wonder how Cas is getting on in his role, he was always meant for great things, what with being so intelligent and well-read. Although, he looks most comfortable when he’s sitting at the banks of one of Shimla’s many many mountain streams. I have watched him sitting peacefully for hours on end, just observing the water gurgling by as bees and butterflies fly about around him.

I’m looking forward to getting a chance to spend some time with him. I hear Lord Mountbatten is going to be in Shimla for the summer as well, so Cas should be back home then. Hopefully we’ll get some time together, both of us have been busy with our own duties since the beginning of the year.

I will write you again when I have settled down in Shimla.

I miss you, Bitch!

 

Dean.

 

P.S. How is Jessica? Have you proposed yet?

P.P.S. I’m serious! You don’t put a ring on that and some slick bastard will sweep her off her feet from right under your nose.

 

 

                                                                 

 

**May 3, 1944**

 

Castiel couldn’t contain his excitement as he waited by the edge of the stream, the sound of the waterfall at the Glen competing with the thumping of his eager heart. It had been more than three months since he had seen Dean, with both of their jobs taking them to different corners of the sub-continent. Castiel had travelled to many different cities with Lord Mountbatten, the current Commander of the SEAC, as part of his administrative staff.

The nature trail where Castiel waited was a secluded spot that Dean and he had discovered on one of their many walks in the forests around Shimla in the beginning, both instinctively seeking a cocoon of solitude for themselves, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

They had come a long way since that first night they met, at Balthazar’s wedding reception. Dean’s calm, confident nature, and his easy-going manner had slowly but surely chipped away at Castiel’s reservations, and the more he came to know the dashing lieutenant, the more Castiel fell, irrevocably and completely, in love. Castiel had been hesitant to acknowledge what he felt for Dean, at first, not only because of the negative connotations of a homosexual relationship, but also the larger impact it could have on Dean’s career as well as his family’s honour within the British society in India. Yet he had been unable to resist the pull of the enigmatic officer, never able to deny him when Dean called on him at the Novak estate or invited him for walks in the evenings. Perhaps it was the open mentality of America that made the young lieutenant so bold, but he never once gave up.

He gasped as he felt strong arms circle his waist from behind, the warm hard chest of his lover enveloping him in a tight embrace. He felt Dean’s soft lips press into the crook between his neck and shoulder, and his hot breath fanned across his ear as Dean whispered, “Hey, Cas!”

“Hello Dean.” Cas turned around in the embrace, looking into the green eyes he had missed so terribly, and seen every night in his dreams.

The difference in their heights was minimal, so that Dean had to bend his head only slightly as their lips met in a soft kiss, and Cas sighed contentedly, before they drew back to look at each other.

Dean looked into Cas’ eyes, holding his face tenderly between his palms, his thumbs brushing softly against the slight stubble Cas had allowed to grow while he was on vacation from his duties.

“Nice peach fuzz.” He grinned.

“I know you like it,” Cas said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

It was amazing how he changed gears from Castiel to Cas the minute he was in Dean’s presence.

Castiel was a stoic, silent bureaucrat. Efficient, calm, obedient.

Cas, on the other hand, was a carefree rebel, who smiled and teased. If asked, Cas would probably (and rightly) say that the amount he smiled during the little stolen time he spent with Dean was much more than the entire time he had spent away from his man put together. 

“I missed you, Cas,” Dean said, pulling the shorter man back into his arms, burying his face in Cas’ shoulder.

Cas nuzzled his face in Dean’s hair, his hands moving soothingly on the other man’s broad back. “Hmmm… so did I. It becomes harder every moment that I have to spend away from you.”

“I know, Cas, believe me, I do.” Dean breathed heavily as he drew back. “How long are you in Shimla for?”

“Maybe a month, at the most. They’ve moved HQ to Ceylon, and I have been told the Commander will be going there to reassign the military command for after General Stillwell has been recalled to Washington, as rumours suggest he will be. What about you? When do you start receiving trainees?” Cas asked.

“Not until the end of the summer. You know what that means?” Dean asked, a roguish twinkle in his eye, “I’m gonna get you all to myself for a whole entire month, Cas!” 

Whatever his response might have been was lost as Cas crashed his lips to Dean’s, letting his passion and love for the man speak on his behalf, as the two lovers lost themselves in each other, in this peacefully silent corner of the world, while around them the world waged unwinnable wars.

       

 

**June 3, 1944**

The last day of their time together was upon them in what felt like the blink of an eye.

The months had flown by, a string of long afternoons that turned into evening, as they lounged in their favourite spot at the Glen. Fiery, passionate kisses had heated the air around them as their bodies spoke, eloquent in an ancient language, in a way that their words could not. Even in the aftermath of their love making, as they lay snuggled close to each other, loath to be apart during the handful of stolen moments they had, their hands wandered aimlessly, learning the planes and angles of the other, for the lonely nights they knew were coming. While they avoided the social areas in town like The Mall or Ridge Road, they took picnics at nearby spots around Shimla, those that were not frequented by the visiting soldiers or tourists, an advantage of Castiel having grown up in the area.

Cas woke up with a start. It took him a few groggy seconds to realise where he was, encased safely in Dean’s arms, the other man wrapped around him, still asleep. His agitation would not allow him to stay still, the restlessness of the impending separation from Dean causing him to extract himself gently from the warm cocoon. He sat up, leaning against the tree they had lain under, looking down peacefully at the sleeping wonder that was his Dean. He never wanted to leave and yet he couldn’t think of a way to stay. The world kept conspiring to throw them apart when all Cas wanted was for them to be together, forever.

He looked around morosely at the waterfall, the forest around them that had been a steadfast witness to their love. Some of these trees were hundreds of years old, and he wondered how many other lovers they had sheltered during that time. How many had found happiness in their ever afters? How many had been parted never to meet again, the only proof of their existence muted in the silence of the ancient Deodar trees.

He felt an irresistible urge to mark this moment.  He stood up, and found a sharp rock in the undergrowth, furiously carving a mark onto the tree they lay against.

The scratching woke Dean, who turned around as he stretched. “Cas?” He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Cas paused in his task and turned his attention away from the tree. He looked down at the man he loved. “Dean, do you know what these trees are called?” He waved a hand to indicate the forest around them, before pointing to the one they were under. “Do you know what _this one_ is?”

Dean looked up at the tree, squinting his eyes to get a better look at the high foliage. “I don’t know, man. Looks kinda like a christmas tree. Some kind of pine?” 

Cas smiled. “Hmm. It’s a type of cedar. The locals call it Deodar, or as they pronounce it _Devdhar_ .” He knelt down, sitting on his heels. “ _Dev_ , meaning God. _Dhar_ , meaning wood, or in this case, tree.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the complete non-sequitur, “Thanks for the botany lesson, Einstein! What does that have to do with why you’re suddenly vandalising trees?”

Cas looked almost beatific as he declared, “I was carving our initials on the tree trunk.”

“How romantic, Mr. Novak! You must really love me!” Dean said in a high falsetto, placing a hand on his heart as he fluttered his eyelashes coquettishly.

It was Cas’ turn to roll his eyes, but he explained anyway, “Dean! It’s just that...well, you know…” He turned around, sitting next to Dean as he leaned against the tree, their shoulders pressed tightly together. He took Dean’s hand in his, linking their fingers. “We’ll never get a chance to do what other people get to do when they’re in love. You know, go to church, get married, live together as one.”

His voice took on a wistful, sad tone, as he looked down at their linked fingers. “I just thought, this tree… it is literally the God Tree, and if the God in church won’t witness our love, our...union, then at least this tree can…” His breath hitched on a choke, overcome with feeling.

Dean brought their hands, still joined, to his lips, and pressed a kiss to Cas’ knuckles. Then he stood up suddenly, startling Cas. “C’mon, get up!” He urged, pulling Cas up with him.

Then Dean looked into Cas’s eyes and placed both hands on his shoulders, kissing him gently on the lips before turning him around, facing the tree again. He stood behind Cas, a strong, steady presence, as he slid his right hand from Cas’s shoulder down to his palm, which still held the rock he had been using earlier. Hooking his chin on Cas’s shoulders, Dean brought their joined hands back up to the tree where a “D” had been interrupted mid-carving, and silently guided Cas’s hand as they finished what Cas had set out to do.

When they were done, an intertwined “D” and “C” freshly carved into the centuries old Deodar, Dean placed a soft kiss on Cas’s neck, before whispering, “Well, Cas, we’re tree married now. May I kiss the groom?”

Nothing could match the brilliance of Cas’ blue eyes, the width of his smile, all gums and teeth and crinkled eyes as he turned in Dean’s arms, taking the taller man’s face in both hands, as he rained kisses on every part of that beloved visage, his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, and finally, his lips, each kiss accompanied by a single word, each time, “Always.”

They may never be able to be truly one, not with the ways of the world they lived in, and certainly not with the turmoil that was brewing through the nations, a wild tempest created by man in a bid for something as inconsequential as power.

But here, in the midst of indescribable beauty and, literally, celestial presence, they would be joined forever.  

 

 

 

To,

Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esq.

Winchester & Harvelle Associates

Kansas City, MO                                                                                                                                                                               November 22, 1944

 

Dear Sam,

 

How are you, man? It’s Thanksgiving Day today, and I miss you so much, Sammy was thinking about how long it's been since we celebrated Thanksgiving as a family.

The American soldiers at the barracks were hosted at a Thanksgiving dinner by Gabriel at the Novak residence. Of course there are no turkeys in India, at least not anywhere near Shimla, but then India is a big country so maybe there are some and we just don’t know about them. Instead we had stuffed duck and pretended it was turkey. (I helped with the preparation and I found I quite enjoy working in the kitchen!) Anyway, Krishna, Gabriel’s butler/cook/housekeeper makes a pretty mean pie, and he made two of each variety, pumpkin, apple and one of his own invention based on an Indian dessert with carrots. I looked on in horror when he mentioned the filling, but it was heavenly to taste, and I guess that’s all that matters. I think we can call it a successful Thanksgiving (as much as it can be without you or Cas here).

By the way, I have been living at the Novak Residence since September, so you can address your letters here rather than the barracks (they’re more private that way).

You remember I told you that Gabriel had invited me to stay? I finally took him up on his offer, or as Gabriel himself put it, “the mountain has finally come to Mohammed”. He’s a bit of a ear beater, but a good egg where it counts. Now that Cas has been sent to Ceylon with the SAC, and he’ll be there for a while, it just feels easier to be without him, in this house where he lived. It makes me miss him a little less, sitting in his armchair in the library, reading the books he read growing up. Cas won’t be back home until June! That seems so far away, Sammy. Sometimes I feel… anyway you know what I mean. I ain’t one for sensitive touchy-feely moments.

Hey good job on proposing, dude! Although I’m not sure Jess is of sound mind if she said “YES” to your giant ass! Congratulations, Sammy. I’m so proud of you, you don’t even know. Have you guys decided on a date yet? I would say don’t you dare walk that aisle without me at your side as your best man, but with the things are going with the war, I can’t find it in me to make you wait that long.

Some days it feels like it’s almost over, others it seems it’s never gonna end. Talk from G.I.’s from the front seems to be that the Jerries are on their last legs and we’re ready to pull the tents, but the blokes from the Orient say the Nips don’t seem to be givin’ up just yet. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings, and she don’t seem ready to step up to the stage yet.

We’ve got some officers and RAF wings coming in later this year for terrain maneuvers, so I may move back to the main barracks while they’re here. You can keep writin’ at Gabriel’s though, cause I’ll keep visitin’ the shortstop anyway. I know he misses Cas too. Also, Krishna’s cooking is addictive.

You take care, Sammy. Set that date, and tie your girl down!

 

Dean.

 

 

To,

Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esq.

WInchester & Harvelle Associates

Kansas City, MO May 8, 1945

 

Sammy!

 

Hitler is dead! The Krauts have surrendered!!!

The Japs are still holding on, but the end of the war now seems a possibility, and the future looks a bit brighter. 

Cas will be home soon too! I can’t wait to celebrate with him! I’ve been making something for him, I hope he likes it.

 

Love,

Dean

 

P.S. I made something for you too, Bitch.

P.P.S. I’m sending it by parcel post. The Indians here say that the bridal dolls are meant to bring good luck to the bride and groom, so consider it a wedding present for whenever you and Jess get hitched!

 

 

**June 3, 1945**

Castiel looked at the dappled sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy of the Deodars creating an alluring pattern on the freckled canvas of Dean’s back as he lay asleep in the afternoon sun. They had met everyday since Cas came back to Shimla a week ago. He let his eyes roam over the planes and curves of the man’s body, and his hands couldn't resist following the path of his eyes. Dean lay sprawled on his stomach, his bent right leg creating a triangular space between in legs. His head rested on his linked forearms, little snuffling sounds the precursors to the snores (vehemently denied by Dean himself) that would come with deeper slumber. Every line of his body looked fluid and relaxed, a contrast to how the soldier held his posture when alert and awake.   

The natural bow of Dean’s legs made an attractively open space that sparked an impulse Cas wouldn’t have been able to resist had he even felt the inclination, and he had been deprived of his lover’s touch for far too long to have any desire to do so. He gleefully crawled over Dean and draped himself over his back, his hips settling into the cushion of thighs and butt, torso fitting naturally over Dean’s. The position conveniently brought his face in line with Dean’s shoulder, which of course begged for Cas to press his lips there in a kiss. Dean smelt musky from their activities earlier but that didn't deter Cas from putting his nose to the crook of Dean’s neck and inhale.

Dean hardly let out a huff when Cas slowly allowed his weight to settle on the man below him, and Cas felt a smile trying to break free. He saw no need to resist.

"Dean," he said, his voice a little breathy.

Earning no response, Cas sighed, a playful urge overtaking him, as he gently bit the shoulder where it joined the long muscles of Dean’s neck, just a quick nip with his teeth .

Dean involuntarily made a happy little sound, still asleep.

Cas realised that stronger measures would be needed to entice his man, and proceeded to suck a bruising mark lower on his shoulder, and succeeded, as Dean responded, his whole body tensing and relaxing under Cas in a lazy stretch. Dean let out a groan and despite the fact that Cas couldn’t see his face, he sensed when Dean opened his eyes.

Castiel rested his chin over Dean’s back and waited. Dean’s face scrunched up in a curious frown, traces of sleep still apparent in his voice, “Dude, did you _bite_ me?”

Cas just hummed a response, a stupid smile refusing to leave his face, when Dean, now coming fully awake, attempted further movement. “Wait. Are you... Oh, Mr. Novak, is that a gun in your pocket or…?”

Cas couldn’t resist a grin, as he pressed a second kiss on the neglected left shoulder, “I don’t have pockets…” Kiss right shoulder.  “Because...” Kiss left shoulder. “I’m not wearing pants.” He whispered, and gently bit the earlobe closest to him, rolling his hips suggestively as he slid off Dean slightly.

Dean rolled over onto his back in the space given, his hands coming up to frame the other man’s jaw, thumbs caressing the sharp cheekbones. “You hussy, Cas!” Then he leaned up to capture his plump lips in a heated kiss, their tongues willingly meeting with all the passion of long lost lovers.

Which they were, in a sense.

When they parted, breathless, Cas still wouldn’t let go, as he looked at every freckle on his lover’s face (and there were countless). “I’m making up for lost time. I don’t have the patience for shame, Dean.”

There wasn’t much talking after that. That isn’t to say there was an absence of sounds.

Later, they lay spent and sweating, Cas draped over Dean in a boneless heap, exchanging lazy kisses and hands roaming without any particular intent. Dean whispered as he nudged Cas’ shoulder gently. “Cas. I almost forgot… Hey Cas, lemme up.”

Cas groaned his disapproval, but reluctantly rolled off of Dean and onto his back, “What?!” He grumped, his lips moued in a delicious pout.

“I got something for you, c’mon, get up.” Dean sat up, looking around for his discarded jacket and reaching into the deep pocket once he found it.

Cas sat up next to Dean, head tilted in curiosity, as Dean held out a metal tin. The name on the side read “Huntley and Palmers, Biscuit Manufacturers.”

Cas shot him a puzzled frown. “You got me biscuits?”

“You’re supposed to look inside, genius!” Dean said, rolling his eyes.

Cas opened the tin, and his eyes went wide, “Dean!” He breathed, his eyes clouding with moisture.

Inside the tin, in a red velvet cloth, lay two wooden dolls. Two wooden _male_ dolls.

The dolls were made of dark wood, dressed in the traditional Indian costume worn by bridegrooms. One of them was draped in a blue embroidered kurta, while the other wore a forest green one, matching garlands across both their necks were made from red and green wool, representing flowers. Their features were intricately carved, as were the details on the limbs. The plinth that each doll rested on was shaped like a lotus flower, and carved on each plinth were words that made the tears finally spill from Cas’ eyes and onto his cheeks. The one on the doll with the blue kurta said “Cas” and on the green one said “Dean”.

Cas looked up at Dean. “They’re beautiful! But..where...where did you get them?”

Dean bit his lip, looking down bashfully as a flush crept up his cheeks and neck. “Made ‘em,” he muttered.

“You...you _made_ them?! But...how? Why?” Cas couldn’t resist touching each doll reverently.

Dean smiled. “I heard what that little Indian girl said. You remember, at Balthazar’s wedding? She told Anna it would bring good luck. And well, technicallyitsouranniversary!” he stammered through without a breath.

Cas could only breathe out in wonder, “Dean!”

“Well, you were the one that wanted to get tree married! I couldn’t give you a wedding gift or.. Or even a ring!

“There was this young boy from South India, Gopalan, working in the mess, earlier this year. His family are woodcarvers by trade. That’s what he used to do before he joined the army. In his spare time, he used to carve. He taught me after I asked him.”

“Um, you asked him to teach you...how to make dolls?” Cas pursed his lips to suppress a smile.

“Don’t laugh!! I was... I needed something to keep me from going crazy missing you, okay?” Dean huffed a laugh at the memory. “We started by carving on potatoes.” He shot Cas a meaningful look. “Let’s just say, the mess had _a lot_ of potato based dishes before he let me carve with wood!”

Cas couldn’t resist any longer. He surged forward, crashing his lips into Dean’s, wrapping his arms tightly around the other man’s back. Cas was so grateful that he had allowed this man into his heart and his life, and he was going to cling tight and never let go, not if he could help it.

 

  

To,

Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esq.

WInchester & Harvelle Associates

Kansas City, MO                                                                                                                                                                                      June 30, 1945

 

Dear Sam,

 

I have been re-assigned.

One of the officers that had come for the terrain training felt my talents are being wasted in training new recruits when I could be contributing to the war effort more actively. He says I have promise. Now that the war is practically over in Germany, it seems the Allies are concentrating all their effort on the Japs and the Russians.

Apparently, Cas’ older brother, Michael recommended me to Major Alastair Heyerdahl.

I didn’t think he even knew I existed, frankly. I’ve only met him once, he’s a priest at the church here.

The new posting is all hush-hush and I’m not supposed to say anything about it, but you can continue to write me at Gabriel’s. I’m sure I’ll be back here when I get the chance.

Cas has reservations about my going. He doesn’t trust the Major and is suspicious about why Michael would recommend me. I can’t understand why he won’t accept that they see my potential. He just wants to keep me tied here so I’m available whenever he sees fit to come home on his vacation. Like, it’s fine for him to go advancing his career and gallivanting all over the country while I stay here in this tiny corner of the world like a housewife. He’s just gonna have to accept that I have a career too, and I know he’s gonna be proud of me when I come back with some fruit salad on my uniform.

 

Dean.

 

P.S. Cas hasn’t spoken to me for 3 days, but I’m still going.

 

**June 3, 1946**

Cas watched the setting sun across the mountains as he waited for Dean. He had been waiting since the day dawned, the first rays of the sun touching the tree tops.

There had been no letter from Dean for more than six months, and the last one simply said he was taking up his new assignment. But Cas was sure that if he could make it, Dean would come. It was their anniversary, after all.

The sun finally set on the horizon, dark descending on the valley below, and seemed to seep into Cas’ life.

Dean never came.

 

To,

Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esq.

Winchester & Harvelle Associates

Kansas City, MO                                                                                                                                                                                    June 3, 1946

 

Dear Sam,

 

It’s our anniversary. Cas will probably wait for me at the Glen.

I can’t go, Sammy.

How can I show my face? He was right, you know.

Alastair is a monster. He made _me_ a monster. Or maybe there was always a monster inside me, waiting to be unleashed, and he just released it.

The assignment that he wanted me for was horrific (and probably not sanctioned by any of the command forces). It was _torture_ , Sammy! I tortured people, for information or confession, I don’t know.

I resisted. I did, I swear to you. I told him to stick it where the sun don’t shine.

But they know. Michael and Alastair. Sammy, they know about Cas and me. Alastair said that if I didn’t, they’d ruin Cas. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be the one to do that to him. 

So I said yes. I started ripping them apart, Sammy! I sliced and carved and tore at them, POWs, innocents, didn’t matter who. I lost count of how many souls, the things I did to them.

And now. How I feel? This, inside me, I wish I couldn’t feel a thing.

How can I take this broken, damaged monster that I’ve become, to Cas? Cas, who is so pure, who believes in everyone, is everything good and kind in this world. 

Did you know, he is so enamoured by Gandhi. He worships the man and his message of nonviolence!

I have become the opposite of everything Cas believes in and values.

I can’t do it, Sammy. I can’t ever face him again.

 

Dean.

 

 

**June 3, 1947**

“Message for you, Sir, from Mr. Novak.”

Dean Winchester looked up from papers on his desk, startled. Someone who knew him better would probably have caught the brief light of hope that flickered momentarily and died in the space of seconds, before the young Captain held out a hand.

“Bring it here.” He held a hand out for the envelope.

Motioning for the messenger to leave, he tore open the envelope with trembling hands. A short note had been scribbled on the elder Novak’s stationery.

_Dean,_

_Cas is coming home tomorrow morning. You know where to meet him. 1200 hours._

_Gabriel._

Dean pursed his lips as he read, his jaw tightening.

He didn’t realise the messenger was waiting until the man cleared his throat. “I’ve been instructed to wait for a response, Sir”

Dean closed his eyes for a second, sighing in resignation. Then he nodded and quickly scribbled a response.

_I’ll be there._

He sealed it in an envelope, despite the brevity of the response, and sent it off.

He knew what he had to do.

Slowly he pushed away from his desk and went to his quarters. He pulled out his footlocker from under the bed, and opened it, rummaging under clothes and papers until his hands touched cold metal hidden carefully beneath. Gingerly, he withdrew a rusting biscuit tin, the only thing he had taken with him when he left for his ill-fated assignment. He opened it, wistfully touching the embroidery on the blue silk of the doll nestled there, caressing the name of the man he loved carved beneath. Its partner stood on display in Cas’ room at the mansion, holding pride of place on the mantle of his fireplace. He allowed the tears to spill from eyes, willing them to come now, so that there would be no sign of them when he met Cas tomorrow.

Because Dean was in Hell, and he wouldn’t risk pulling Castiel down into the flames with him. Dean would have to break the heart of the only man he had ever loved.

 

**June 4, 1947**

Castiel welcomed the relief he felt when saw Dean waiting by the waterfall. After more than a year of complete radio silence, he doubted whether he would see Dean again.

Yet here he was, his face turned away from the path and towards the gurgling water. The sunlight glinted off his light hair, creating a shining halo around his head and silhouette. Castiel stood there in awe for a few moments, before his feet unlocked themselves and he ran to his man. A joyous shout of his name wrenching free from Cas’ throat caused the other man to turn around.

Cas crashed into Dean, clinging tightly to the soldier, feeling tears build then fall from his eyes. “Dean! Oh Dean! I missed you so much, so much!” His face crushed into the other man’s broad chest, his arms restlessly slipping and grabbing across the back and shoulders, his words became a nonsensical stream of “Dean” and “Thank God” and “You’re here!”.

Suddenly Cas realised the other man, _his_ Dean, stood unresponsive in the embrace, his own arms stiff by his side. Cas loosened his hold, although unable to let go completely, pulling back slightly to look into his beloved’s face. What he saw there made him finally release his grasp as he staggered back.

Dean’s expression was unlike any he had ever seen before on that face. His eyes glinted with a harsh light, just as green, but instead of the warm peridot of welcoming meadows, they shone hard and cold, like the ice buried deep beneath the glaciers of the Antarctic. Of the man that Cas knew, there was no sign, no hint that he had ever existed.

“Dean? What is it?”

Cas held him by the shoulders, shook him, gently at first, then more roughly when he received no response, “Dean?! You’re scaring me! What is it? What happened? DEAN!!”

Dean offered no resistance to the increasingly violent shaking of his body, had no response to Cas holding his face, his fingers caressing frantically across his features. His eyes were dead and hollow, but he allowed Cas the luxury of attempting to look for signs that life existed, thrived within the green depths of his eyes.

Eventually, all Cas could do as he cried was whisper, “Please, Dean. Please talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong!”

“It’s over, Cas. I can’t do this any more. I’m done. _We’re_ done.” Voice flat, monotone, Dean may as well have been the executioner that dealt the final blow.

“What? But … but why?”

“Don’t you get it, Cas? The war’s over. I get to go home. I get to have a _normal_ life. Wife, kids, white picket fence, the whole nine yards.”

“No!” Cas whispered, “No, no, no, no.” As each word out of Dean’s mouth struck like a bullet into his chest. “I don’t believe you! You love me!”

Dean scoffed, his eyes glittering cruelly. “ _Love_ ?!! You were a tool, _Castiel_ . A means for release. Of course, it was a bonus that you were so eager to please, so...so needy! Did you really think this was forever? That _we_ were forever? I knew you were naive, Castiel, but I didn’t take you for a fool!”

Then Dean thrust a familiar metal tin into his helpless hands. “Here, I don’t need this anymore. Although, even I must admit, that was a nice touch, don’t you think? Made you especially horny that month.”

He leered, before placing a hand on the back of the shorter man’s neck and pulling an unresisting Cas close to him. “One for old times sake,” he whispered, before placing a brutal kiss on his lips.

When he pulled away, he spat on the ground as if to clear a nasty taste from his mouth, then wiped his lips with the heel of his hand. “Thank God, I won’t have to do that anymore!” His voice dripped venom laced with disgust.

The he turned on his heel and walked away from Cas, leaving him devastated and broken, surrounded by the bounteous natural beauty of the surrounding forest.

Cas didn't move, couldn’t move, until one thing in particular shot through his head and his heart like an unstoppable bullet: Dean had, for the first time since they had met, called him _Castiel_.

 

**June 5, 1947**

Castiel returned to the Deodar forest once more, the two dolls wrapped together once again in their red velvet blanket, ensconced safely in the metal biscuit tin. He went to their tree, the one witness of their union, where he fell to his knees sobbing. WIth trembling hands he dug a hole in the dirt at the base of the tree, deep enough that no one would accidentally discover it. He opened the box and looked at the two dolls for one last time, lovingly roaming his fingers over them, before he closed the box tightly, placing it in the hole. His sobbing grew louder, huge gasping breaths making an attempt to push air into his constricted lungs, as he packed the earth over the metal tin, burying his life with the dolls, the symbol of his love, his Dean.

He didn’t know how long he sat there crying, but somewhere along the way the pain turned to anger, and that anger brought a clarity of thought. He furiously wiped the tears and snot from his wrecked face, and placed a palm on the freshly turned earth. “I’ll come back, Dean. I’ll come back here, and I’ll wait. Wait for you, for us. We’ll take them home again, Dean, I promise you. We’ll take them home together.”

Then with a last look at their initials carved into the wood, he stalked off, a man on a mission. To seek answers from the only person he suspected was to blame.

“What did you to him, Michael??!! WHAT DID YOU DO?!” Castiel roared as he stalked into the priest’s chambers at Christ Church.

“What are you talking about, Castiel? What did I do to whom?”

The calm on his brother’s face when he looked at Castiel was infuriating, and Castiel wanted nothing more than to rip the smile off his smug face.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about, you smug bastard. Dean! What happened to him out there?” Castiel braced his hands on the surface of Michael’s deak, his knuckles white in fury. “What. Have. You. Done?” He gritted out through gnashing teeth.

“Now, now, Castiel.” Castiel whirled around towards the nasal voice behind him. “We didn’t do anything your...boyfriend...didn’t want to do, Castiel.”

“Alastair.” Castiel suddenly had a sick feeling in his stomach. “I should have known you would have something to do with this.”

He stalked up to the Major, as he balled his fingers into a fist and with all his weight behind it, punched Alastair smack on the jaw.

Alastair staggered back, then a cold smile appeared as he wiped a hand across his bloodied lips and teeth. “Almost. Looks like God is on my side today.”

Then he surged forward, grabbing Castiel by the lapels and pushing him backwards, until he hit the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. “You know, like roaches, you and Dean!” He pressed a hand to Castiel’s neck, cutting off his air as he dug his fingers into the windpipe. “I wish Michael would let me kill you! But no, the Father still has some brotherly feeling for you, so I’m only allowed to break you. But Dean...him, Michael has no reservations about killing, Castiel! Is that what you want, hmm?”

Castiel turned his eyes to look at his brother, unbelieving that the man of God he had looked up to, despite differing ideals, could be a party to this horror.

“Mi...Mich...Michael?”

Michael looked at him, his eyes laced with disgust. Castiel thought he detected a hint of pity, but he was too preoccupied to bother confirming it, but it must have been there, because he signalled Alastair and the other man loosened his hold on Castiel’s throat.

“Castiel, this is wrong. You know it is a sin, Cassie, what you have been doing with that...that filthy soldier! I have to save you, Castiel. I can save you!” Michael declared with fervour.

“Save me? Dean is everything to me, Michael. How will you _save_ me, if my heart and soul are dead? How will you save me, Michael, if there is nothing _left_ _to save_?”

“Oh give it a rest, Castiel! Do you even know what Dean Winchester is?” Alastair wheezed in. “He is an animal, my most qualified _interrogator,_ ” he sneered the word at Castiel. “And you know what? He left a part of himself on that rack. He rose to heights that even I was never able to.” His voice carried a hint of awe, which disgusted Castiel even more than his normal whine.

Almost conversationally, Alastair continued, “It wasn’t easy, you know, breaking him. Pulled out all the stops, but he was, well, made of something unique. The stuff of heroes. But eventually even he said, ‘Sign me up.’ Oh, the first time he picked up my razor, the first time he sliced into that weeping bitch…”

Castiel was horrified. “No! You’re lying! Dean is the most righteous man I know! He would never, _never_ do that!”

“That may be true. But in the end all it took was _your_ name, Castiel. Yes! _You_ were the final straw that broke the camel’s back. You see, Dean WInchester _broke_ , because he couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you. Isn’t that the most delicious irony ever!” Alastair declared gleefully.

Castiel could no longer contain his fury. He pushed all his wrath outwards, his fists landing on the taller man wherever they found space. Left, right, face, stomach, ribs. It didn’t matter. He needed to this man to shut up. He needed Alastair to _hurt_. All Castiel could see in front of him were the dead eyes of the man he loved, his spirit broken and crushed to pieces, and Castiel wanted to do the same to the cause of it all.

Cas would have killed Alastair then, without hesitation, without remorse. He didn’t anticipate the blow to his head, dealt by his own blood. His own brother, who he picked up the heavy candelabra sitting on his desk and brought it down heavily and a little too forcefully onto the back of Castiel’s head, sending the younger man crumbling like a broken marionette, slumping onto the floor, unconscious.  

 

**June 6, 1947**

When Castiel came to, he was surrounded by darkness. He couldn’t make out where he was, and couldn’t see anything that provided a hint. He tried to feel around only for his hand to encounter walls on all sides, so close that he couldn’t even lie down. He stood up, feeling for any latches or hinges, in case it was a closet space but met nothing but brick. Castiel had no idea what Michael was thinking.

In the absence of anything to do, his mind kept looping back to what Alastair had told him, and his heart broke  once again for Dean.

That vivacious man, so full of life and laughter, had been buried alive. He breathed, but Cas was sure he had stopped living the first time he was forced to pick up a blade to hurt another human being. Sure, Dean was a soldier, and killing and bloodshed were a part of a soldier’s life. But shedding another human being’s blood on the battlefield was leagues away from having to shed it in dark torture chambers. Dean, who had become a soldier because he couldn’t bear the thought of people being treated as if they were dirt just because they were different. Who joined a war that wasn’t his so his little brother wouldn’t. Alastair and Michael had taken that man and compelled him to…

And no wonder Dean had barely looked at Castiel that day. He was standing in front of the one reason, the one cause, of his misery. If it hadn’t been for Cas, Alastair would have had no leverage to make Dean do what they wanted. No wonder Dean had been disgusted by even his touch. Of course he wanted nothing more than to go home to the people he loved, to create a life far away from the filth Castiel had brought into his life.

Cas could not grudge Dean this feeling, Cas was just as disgusted at himself, if not more.

He felt the tears stream down his face in the darkness, and he did done nothing to stop them.

Hours passed. Cas wasn’t sure whether it was still day, or whether night had fallen. Or even whether a new day had broken across the horizon. He was vaguely aware of having vomited sometime after he woke up, the smell hitting him occasionally making him gag. His head pounded like a jackhammer, his throat and mouth parched from a lack of water. He wasn’t aware of how many times he had lost consciousness since waking up, but each time he woke, he felt weaker.

Eventually Castiel resigned himself to the fact that he could very well die there, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by his own vomit. He couldn’t summon the energy to even stand anymore. He wondered if Michael knew he had buried a brother who was still alive, or perhaps he had believed Castiel to be dead already, and hidden what he thought was his body. He wondered what Michael would tell Gabriel, and if Gabriel would believe his story.

He refused to die thinking about his brother or Alastair, and turned his thoughts to the only thing, the only person who mattered, who had ever mattered since they met. Visions of green eyes, freckled cheeks and warm lips danced before his eyes. His only regret was that Dean would believe Cas had given up on him, would believe Cas had left him, and Cas knew, that would break him even more. Cas felt helpless that there was no way to tell Dean that Cas still loved him, that he was not broken.

So he used the only tools at his disposal, his nails, to scratch his message into the brick around him, knowing that Dean may never see it, but needing to write it, if only for his own peace of mind. He wrote until his fingers grew slippery with blood from his torn nails. Then he used the blood as his ink. He couldn’t see what he was writing, but it mattered not at all, so long as he wrote.

With his last conscious breath, Cas prayed. To the many Gods of his adopted country, and the one God of his ancestry.

He prayed, that the Indians were right. That there was a rebirth. A second chance. An opportunity to complete the uncompleted, to pay the outstanding debt, to right the wrong.

He prayed, that someday, his message would reach Dean.

 

To,

Mr. Gabriel Novak.

Novak Estate

Elysium Hill

Longwood, Shimla

Himachal Pradesh 171001

India                                                                                                                                                                                         March 5, 1978

 

Dear Mr. Novak,

 

I regret to inform you that my brother, Captain Dean Winchester (Retd.) passed away last Wednesday, on the 1st of March.

In his last will and testament, he left instructions for me to ensure that his journal and his letters be sent to your address.

My brother spoke fondly of you, and I believe that I can safely say today what might have been considered blasphemy in those days.  He belonged, he said, body and soul, to your brother, Castiel. I only regret that I did not have the good fortune to meet either of you, for my brother often recalled many stories which became my only glimpse of a life Dean left behind.

Mr. Novak, I know that the circumstances in which my brother left Shimla may have served to instill in your heart, harsh feelings towards him. Now, in his passing, I can only pray that his words in the journal may provide some redemption. He was not an unkind man, merely a broken one. One who felt unworthy of the love and devotion that Castiel undoubtedly held for him.

He spent every day of his life striving to be the man Castiel would have been proud of, a life of service and charity. 

If there is a God, I beg his kindness to allow my brother the chance to reunite with his Cas, to grant him the peace in death that he never found since his last day in Shimla.

 

Sincerely,

Samuel Winchester

Lawrence, Kansas

 

 

_From the Journal of Captain Dean Winchester._

 

**June 5, 1947: Shimla**

 

_Castiel is dead. My Cas died, because of me. I killed him._

 

_I can’t…. I don’t want to live. Not without him._

 

_Oh God! Gabriel! How will I face him?!!_

 

_I just...CAS!!!_

 

**June 6, 1947: Kalka**

 

_I left! I don’t know where I’m going, but I couldn't… just couldn't stay. Not anymore._

 

_Not without Cas._

 

_Every street, every road every leaf in the goddamn valley reminds me of what I’ve lost. What I stupidly let go._

 

**June 6, 1947: Frontier Mail, Ambala**

 

_Why? Why didn’t I go there SOONER?_

 

_Those bloody bastards! Michael and Alastair! MICHAEL!_

 

_What I saw! What I heard! I wish I could forget the scene laid out before me, and yet I know it will haunt my every nightmare, my every breath, until the day I die._

 

_Alastair taunting Cas, telling him he was the cause of my downfall. And Cas, refusing to give in, to believe that his Dean was capable of such horrors. How he fought, my Cas! He had Alistair pinned. My scrappy little diplomat, who knew what a ferocious fighter he could be!_

 

_I tried to bang on the window, to get Cas’ attention, but he was too intent on Alastair._

 

_And then Michael, MICHAEL! His own flesh and blood! The elder brother who was supposed to protect him. How cold he looked then, not a shred of emotion on his face, as he brought that candle holder down on his little brother’s head!_

 

_Oh God, my Cas!_

 

_Passengers all around me are celebrating their independence, jubilant Indians distributing sweets and singing patriotic songs. Finally, they have won!_

 

_While I have lost. Everything._

 

**June 7, 1947: Baroda Railway Station.**

 

_I was supposed to go to Bombay. I wanted to go home. Back to Kansas, to Sammy. But._

 

_There is a group of people, disciples of the Mahatma, on their way to his Ashram in Ahmedabad._

 

_I’ve followed them off the train. My Cas believed in Gandhi. Maybe I will find atonement there._

 

**June 15, 1947: Sabarmati Ashram, Ahmedabad**

 

_This is the closest I will be to Cas, in this lifetime._

 

_There is a simple serenity to this place. Bapu radiates a sense of peace that settles into your soul. It hard to imagine that this gentle being, this diminutive man shook the entire foundation of the British Empire._

 

_I may never be happy, I KNOW I will never be happy again. But perhaps, here, I can be content._

 

**July 3, 1947: Sabarmati Ashram, Ahmedabad**

 

_Bapu stopped me after the prayer meeting today. He says my soul is agitated. He’s not wrong._

 

_He explained one of the daily prayers. It is in his native language, Gujarati. But he translated it for me._

 

_vaiṣṇava jana to tene kahiye_                       _Vaishnava: the ideal human is one who_

_je pīḍa parāyī jāṇe re,_                                 _Feels the pain of others,_

_para duḥkhe upakāra kare to ye_                 _Helps those who are in misery,_

_mana abhimāna na āṇe re_                          _Yet never lets pride enter their mind._

 

_That is someone I can try to become. Cas would like that, I think._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEEEP! I know! I know! But I warned you! 
> 
> But folks: Read on, for there in lies happiness and feels.
> 
> If you are only!Destiel folks and came straight to this chapter: Read the Epilogue: You'll thank me, I swear. :)


	6. ACT V: GYAAN: KNOWLEDGE

 

__

 

_If it was possible, I’d find him, for another chance at love._

_~Ilsa Madden Mills_

 

“Gabriel?” Misha beckons for Jensen to follow him into the open doorway of the majestic colonial style house, the home of the eccentric Gabriel Novak.

Misha invited Jensen to accompany him to Gabriel’s house on Saturday and Jensen agreed, since it would give him an opportunity to meet the reclusive producer as well Ben Edlund, the director that he is meant to be working with, and he frankly is a little bit in awe of. If a large part of why he agreed is also more time with a certain blue-eyed man who has become a constant presence in his thoughts since they met, well that is Jensen’s business alone. 

Jensen is struck by an eery sense of _deja vu_ as soon as he sees the colonial style building through the imposing iron filigreed gates of the Novak Estate. The house stands high above the town of Shimla proper, up winding roads that snake across the lower Himalayan slopes. The long winding drive way leads up to a large house that would have looked deceptively cottage like, if it weren’t for the sheer size of it. Its red roof shines brightly in the afternoon sun which reflects off the tall glass windows surrounded by flowering green vines that cling to the sides of the house, all the way up to the second floor windows. As they crest the hilly driveway, Jensen can see that the house is surrounded by lush green gardens on all sides, a large estate lies sprawled out towards the back. Other smaller buildings are peppered across the vast acreage, which he assumes are the backpackers hostel he has read about.

As Jensen looks around in awe, Deepak drives up to the covered front porch at the main entrance of the house, its large double doors made of dark stained ancient wood standing invitingly open. 

They enter through the door, which leads into a warm entrance foyer. The floor is covered with plush red and gold carpet in intricate oriental patterns, an imposing wooden staircase to the left leading up to the second floor, ringed with a balcony overlooking the foyer. Ancient weaponry is displayed prominently along the wall of the stairwell, and a crystal chandelier hangs from the centre of the roof, suspended on a thick metal chain all the way past the upper floors. Ornate tables hold framed sepia photographs and other mementos are artfully arranged in various displays. Paintings and photographs of earlier generations are given pride of place at various intervals along the walls.

Some instinct propels Jensen towards the framed photographs on the table closest to him, but before he can get a better look, Misha tugs on his hand, pulling him further into the house, still calling for their host.

“Gabriel! Krishna?!”

A tall imposing Indian man in a black butler’s coat walks out of one of the doors to the left. “Mr. Misha!” he calls warmly, bowing slightly before he straightens to greet Jensen.

Whatever words he was about to utter die on his lips, his mouth hanging open as he gapes at Jensen, looking perplexed, just as Misha speaks up, “Oh hey, Krishna! This is Jensen Ackles. He is the star in Gabriel’s movie.”

Misha is completely oblivious to the butler’s reaction, but Jensen watches as the other man tears his gaze from Jensen to Misha, then back to Jensen and suddenly his eyes fill with what look like unshed tears. Jensen can only watch as the man, Krishna, blinks as if to clear his vision, but his voice is gruff when he greets, “Mr. Ackles, welcome to the Novak residence. Please, come in!”

He leads Misha and Jensen to a sunlit room, showing them to one of the comfortable sofas near the large bay window, “Mr. Misha, please make yourselves comfortable, I’ll let Master Gabriel know you’re here.”

He seems flustered and unsure as he backs towards the door, turning back and forth towards the door, before resolutely turning and walking out.

Jensen turns as he hears Misha huff a soft chuckle, “I wonder what’s wrong.”

“Why?” Jensen asks. 

“Krishna here could put Jeeves to shame, he’s usually that stoic. This is the first time I’ve seen him so flustered!” MIsha smiles fondly in the direction the man left, before looking at Jensen. “Here. Sit.”

Jensen looks around the large room. It looks like a combination parlour and sitting room. A large grand piano is situated along the wall on the left, dividing the room in the middle. The area towards the door they had entered from is peppered with comfortable sofas upholstered in white silk, with a jacquard pattern in gold thread. Warm gold cushions are artfully placed across each sofa. A fireplace with a wooden mantle graced the right wall, lined with more framed photographs and ornate knick knacks. The way the sofas are arranged gives an intimate atmosphere to that side of the room. The other half, where they currently sit, is more formally arranged. The sofas on this end are a combination of three seater and two seater lounges set along the walls, with matching Queen Anne chairs upholstered in the same material as the sofas. Dark mahogany coffee tables are placed within comfortable reaching distance. The entire set-up screams of old world english aristocracy and restrained elegance.

Which explains why Jensen is shocked when he first lays eyes on Gabriel Novak.

Where Jensen expected a portly English gentleman with a thin clipped moustache and maybe a monocle, the person that breezed in was less Michael Caine in Batman and more Michael Palin meets Mr. Bean. If Michael Palin had an incongruous mexican moustache.

“Sorry I'm dragging a little arse today, boys,” the man practically booms, “had quite the night last night. Lots of sex, if you catch my drift.” He wiggles his eyebrows comically. 

“Gabe!” Misha exclaims. “Will you quit it?! And what’s with the porn-stache?” He laughs, indicating the monstrosity on the newcomer’s face.

Gabriel rips the dark moustached off his wrinkled face with flamboyance, his eyes shining gleefully,  “Pfft, please. You can't take the trick out of the Trickster.”

Misha shakes his head in resignation as he looks at Jensen. “ _This_ is Gabe! Jensen, Gabriel Novak. And unfortunately for _you_ , your producer! Gabe, this is Jensen Ackles, the star of your film.”

Jensen stands up to shake hands with the man, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Novak.”

“Oh please. Call me Gabe. I’m too young to be a Mr. Novak.” His eyes twinkle.

As they all sit down again, Gabe looks between Misha and Jensen, his shrewdly assessing gaze piercing with laser like intensity before it settles on its target, “So Mish. Explain this to me again like I’m five years old. Do you spend forty out of forty-eight hours with all the ‘movie types’ you can’t stand, or is this Adonis special like that?”

Misha _blushes_. “Gabe, you promised!” Misha whispers, casting a furtive glance towards Jensen.

If nothing else, this exchange is enough to make Jensen instant like the eccentric sitting across from him, grinning like a cheshire cat. Gabriel Novak may look diminutive in stature, but his presence is anything but. He is shorter than both Jensen and Misha, yet his frame has none of the frailty that comes with age. He looks spry and bouncy, almost vibrating with energy.

Just then, Krishna comes into the room carrying a large silver tray with all the makings for tea and coffee, which he places on the coffee table nearest to them. He looks paler than he had earlier, and Jensen can see his hands tremble a little as he looks at Gabe, a strange look passing between the two older men. Krishna clears his throat as if to speak, but Gabe interrupts him, waving his hand in dismissal.

“It’s alright, my Man Friday. I’ll play mum,” he declares, and the butler turns to leave, then turns back towards Jensen.

“Mr. Ackles, do you have any special dietary requirements? For the dinner tonight,” he says, answering Jensen’s questioning look.

“No, I’m fine with everything. Perhaps not too spicy though.”

“Very well.” He bows, casting one more meaningful glance at Gabriel before leaving. 

Gabe looks at both Jensen and Misha, then rubs his hands together, scooting forward in his seat towards the tray. He looks up at Jensen, “Ah! Here we go, I’m guessing you are a coffee man, Jensen?” 

When Jensen nods, Gabe grins. “All you Americans are. Although I don’t understand the practice of adding cream instead of milk. Not that we British have a leg to stand on, I mean, we add lemon to our tea, so...” He trails off as he pours the coffee from the sterling silver coffee pot. “Help yourself,” he says indicating the sugar and milk pots.

After pouring tea for Misha and himself, he relaxes back into his seat, stirring his tea with a delicate silver spoon.

“Misha tells me you have been here for a week? How do you like our little town, then?”  


 

Misha watches as Jensen regales Gabe with stories of the places he has seen around Shimla, content to sit back and enjoy the interaction, as well as look his fill at the actor who has so fascinated him in the last couple of days.

When they returned from Chandigarh late at night on Thursday, Deepak had been waiting for them at the railway station, so they didn’t get a chance to discuss what had happened on the train earlier. On Friday, Chad had gone to the neighbouring town of Kasauli to visit the workshop of the artists they wanted to display the following week and so Misha had been unable to leave the bookshop. However, Jensen and Misha had spoken via text throughout the day, Jensen sending him random pictures and selfies from wherever Deepak had taken him, including a picture of a steaming cup of _chai_ and what looked like chilli _pakoras_ . What had made Misha laugh out loud though, was the caption: **You’re hotter… ;)**

He hears Jensen talking about the train ride, and tunes back into the conversation.

“You know Gabe,” he interrupts, “the funniest thing happened on the train. I was telling Jensen about the tunnels,” Misha looks at Jensen for his approval to tell the story, and continues when the actor nods, “and for some reason Jensen thought there were 107 tunnels instead of 102. He was so adamant too, he nearly bit my head off when I tried to correct him!” Misha laughs.

Jensen flushes in embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “Um..yeah…”

Gabriel just looks at Jensen for a long moment, then says, “He’s right.”

“What?” Both Jensen and Misha whip their heads up to look at Gabriel.

“The tunnels,” Gabe says, pausing to take a sip of tea, “there used to be 107 before. They renumbered the tunnels before independence. When they made changes to the tracks they re-routed some of it and bypassed some tunnels. That’s why there are only 102 today.” 

“But, how would _he_ know that, Gabe? Even I don’t know that, I know the history of this place like the back of my hand!” Misha exclaims.

Gabe just shrugs and looks enigmatically towards both of them, placing his cup back on the tray. He stands decisively. “Come on Jensen, I’ll give you the grand tour!” He offers.

Both younger men follow Gabriel out of the sitting room. He leads them through the ground floor of the house, which is set out in two wings resting perpendicular to each other in an “L” shape, the entrance foyer and sitting room located in the juncture of the two. As they walk through the house, Gabe points out the various rooms. Misha can see that Jensen is awed by the sheer size of the place, and he listens intently as Gabe talks about the history of the house. Misha already knows most of it from his time here, so he lingers behind the other two, letting Gabe lead.

“This is one of the oldest estates in Shimla. It was built somewhere between 1828 and 1835, by a Doctor Blake. He was a surgeon in the British East India Company.” He points to a portrait of a serious faced Englishman on the wall. “And that is Lord Auckland.” He points to another frame farther along, “He used to be the Governor General. In 1836, he bought this house from the doctor for his private & military secretaries. Very imaginatively named it ‘Secretary’s Lodge’. My father, Charles Novak, came to India just before I was born. He purchased the house and the surrounding estate from Auckland and it has been our family home ever since.”

“Wow! You must have had a pretty big family for such a large place!” Jensen said as he looks around.

Gabe chuckles mischievously. “Well, there were _some_ advantages of no TV or electricity in those days. Nothing to do but fornicate like rabbits”

“Don’t let the size fool you though. Half the lower wing is used to be the servant quarters, that’s in the left wing behind the kitchens. In those days the number of servants in the house was almost triple that of the residents! This wing is mainly the public areas of the house, the sitting room, study, library, etc.”

They come to a set of large double doors which Gabriel opens and motions for them to walk in. “This is the formal dining room. Some very historic names have broken bread here, including Mahatma Gandhi. My brother worked for the last Viceroy, so Lord Mountbatten was a frequent visitor here.”

“These days it’s hardly ever used, much to Krishna’s ire. He misses the olden days more than I do,” Gabe says, wistfully.

“Although to be frank, my brother’s most preferred room was probably the library.” Gabriel looks from Jensen to Misha with a strangely wistful look. “Ever since he was little, when we couldn’t find him anywhere in the house, he would be holed up in there, reading.”

“It was my favourite place as well, when I lived here,” Misha pitches in. “You have to see it, Jensen, it’s… yeah! I can’t even describe it!” 

Gabe chuckles, “I remember. Misha here reminds me so much of….” His voice hitches, and for just a moment Misha thinks he sees the glimmer of tears in his chocolate brown eyes. His brother is a sensitive topic that Gabe never speaks about, not even in those years when Misha lived here. The Englishman talks of everything under the sun, including some scandalous stories about his family, but never, ever, about the younger brother he seems to miss so much.

Gabe shakes off the mood, and with an indulgent smile towards Misha declares, “Oh alright, go on. You can take him to the library. I’m going to go see how Krishna is coming along with the dinner.”

Misha nods, then excitedly takes Jensen’s hand. “Come on! You’re gonna love this.”

 

 

The library is a dark, imposing room, with wood-panelled walls and a deep red carpet, designed to absorb all sound, creating a cocoon from the outside world. It is darker than the rest of the house, but Misha feels along the wall for the switch and turns on the light. A couple of sconce lamps recessed in the wall light up to throw a warm glow around the room, instantly transforming the aura of the place to safe and welcoming. With the lights on, Jensen can see dark red drapes along the opposite wall.  Misha walks over and pulls them open, revealing large glass windows overlooking the garden beyond.  With the natural light streaming in, the entire personality of the room changes. There are plush armchairs placed randomly around the room, arranged to give their occupants privacy from other occupants sharing the room. A large coin collection display adorns the glass case along the wall between the two large windows. The tops of bookcases and bookshelves against the walls display trophies and framed photographs of famous visitors to the house.

The walls are lined with glass-fronted book cases on all sides. The spines of old leather bound tomes gleam faintly with gold lettering, and Jensen can smell the faint aroma of ancient paper lingering in the air. Jensen closes his eyes to appreciate the atmosphere, picturing the room in his mind, and the image of the library is so vivid that he can identify every tiny detail even with his eyes shut. A ticking sound from an ancient clock on the wall above the central display cabinet draws his attention. It is an ornate piece, one of those wind up clocks, a pair of pewter grey wings framing an ancient clock face, the roman numerals are marked in golden metal, and the hands of the clock are carved with intricate patterns. Sighing deeply, Jensen opens his eyes. And the ticking stops. Almost unconsciously his eyes are drawn towards the wall with the clock….which is _bare_!

“Where’s the clock?” he asks in confusion.

“Huh?” Misha, who was absorbed in looking at some books in one of the cabinets, turns towards Jensen. “What did you say?”

Jensen points impatiently to the bare wall. “There. The clock. Where is it?”

“What clock?” Misha looks incredulous.

“C’mon Misha! I heard it ticking.” Jensen’s voice rises in protest as he glances around the room, thinking he might have made a mistake about the location of the timepiece. 

“Jensen, there is no _ticking_! There is no clock in this room. There never has….” Misha suddenly stops, a gasp leaving his mouth, as his face pales.

“How did you… How can…” Misha is muttering, mostly to himself. He looks at Jensen with a wrecked expression as he whispers, “But how?”

Jensen has had enough of Misha imitating a choking fish. An unexpected and unexplained irritation itches under his skin, and he grinds out, “I know what I HEARD! I know what I SAW, OKAY? THERE SHOULD BE A CLOCK HERE!” He is practically shouting by this point, not noticing Misha’s eyes clouding over with horror and confusion.

Before Misha can respond, two pairs of feet pound into the room, both Gabe and Krishna rushing in. Gabe rushes to Jensen, while Krishna places himself between Jensen and Misha, and if Jensen had been paying attention, he might have noted an almost protective stance to Krishna’s shoulders, as if shielding Misha from harm.

“Whoa whoa! Boys! What’s with the Loud Howard routine?” Gabe asks, looking from one man to the other.

Jensen didn’t even realise he was panting, gulping in huge gasping breaths, as his heartbeat thundered in in chest. Misha looks completely thrown, as Krishna runs a soothing hand along his shoulder.

“He.. Jensen, he asked… he said,” Misha peters off helplessly, before taking a deep breath. “Gabe, he wants to know where the clock is.” And strangely, Misha points at the bare point on the wall where he just insisted no clock existed. 

“Oh!” Gabe says softly, looking at Krishna, whose eyes are rounded in shock.

This time, Jensen doesn’t miss the exchange. “What? What do you mean, ‘Oh’?”

“Uh… Sit down, come here, come on, sit!” Gabe pulls an unresisting Jensen to one of the comfortable chairs in the room, indicating the one opposite to Misha. “You too, Mish. Sit down,” he urges, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Jensen, can you describe the clock you think should be there?” He indicates the bare spot on the wall. 

“It was old, big round glass face, with a pendulum. The numbers were roman numerals, made of some kind of metal I think.” He closes his eyes, picturing what he saw in his mind. “The hands are dark, carved. There’s some kind of wings on the sides, silver or grey. I… I heard it ticking.” Jensen opens his eyes when he hears a sharply drawn breath, Misha’s apparently, and looks between him and Gabriel in confusion. “Why?”

Gabe and Krishna exchange another one of those looks, “Um… that clock… you are partly correct. The clock you described _was_ here.” He holds up a hand to stop Jensen, before he can say something triumphantly to Misha. “Hear me out, first. My...my brother loved that clock. When he was younger, he insisted on being the only one to wind it. As he grew up, he started travelling, for his work. I..I never wound it when it was away. I couldn’t bear the ticking...it… it echoed in the silence left by his absence. For me, every time that clock was ticking meant my brother was here, with me.” 

Jensen is enveloped in the melancholy of the octogenarian's words. Strangely though, it is a familiar feeling, one that had gripped him when he arrived in Shimla, and which has been on a constant simmer since meeting Misha.

Gabriel’s eyes glisten wetly as he continues, “My brother...he.. he disappeared. Without a trace, a goodbye. That clock hung there, unwound, silent for a long time. At first, because I still waited, that Ca...that he would come back. But as it turned out, we couldn’t find the key. Krishna looked, everywhere he could think of. Until one day, a young American,” he looks pointedly at Misha, “wound it again.” 

Taking the hint, Misha continues the story, “I’ve told you how I lived here, in the beginning. I was… you don’t know, Jensen, how lost I was. I had this constant restlessness… as if I was waiting for something to happen. The only place I found some peace, some… comfort...was here,” he gestures vaguely around the room, “this library...the smell of it, the feel, that chair by the window...there was a safety here that drew me in. The one thing that rankled, in this perfect heaven, was the clock. It never ticked, stuck in time. I felt like it was mocking me, you know? I was stuck too, in time, in a place that wouldn’t let go.” 

Misha gets agitated as he speaks, his hands trembling as he runs those long fingers through the mess of hair at his scalp. 

“Hours I used to spend, here. In this room. And all I could think was _If only that clock worked_. It became an obsession, almost. I felt...like… if that clock worked… I… it felt like it would be a sign, that I would be ok, too.” 

Misha looks at him then, his eyes pleading for Jensen to understand, but Misha’s next words send a shiver down his spine, a cold wind rippling through the room despite the closed windows, “One day I was looking at the clock, I don’t remember for how long, when suddenly I felt an urgent need, a pull. A strange feeling came over me. I got up. Went up to my room. There’s a loose brick… above the fireplace, I moved it, and there was a key there. Don’t ask me how I knew, hell, I don’t even know how I knew the brick was loose, Gabe, or even Krishna, certainly didn’t.” He looks at both the older men, who nod in confirmation. “I just knew, somehow, that this was _the_ key, I took it down, and wound the clock. It ticked, and I had my sign.” Misha shrugs. “I just knew then, this was where I meant to be.”

Jensen was so mesmerised by Misha as he told his story that had forgotten the other two men in the room until Gabe spoke, “That was fifteen years ago. Then Misha opened his bookstore, and I gifted the clock to him. Because when he wound that clock up was the first time I had known him to be at peace. As a reminder, of… I don’t know, whatever he had felt.. I guess, or maybe that he had a home here, or maybe even as a reminder of... _me_.” 

Gabe looks so torn, the pain in his eyes mirrored in Krishna’s, as he says gently, “That clock hasn’t been in this room since then. Since fifteen years, Jensen.” 

“What?! But...that’s impossible! Gabe, I _know_ what I saw!” Jensen whispers, shocked, yet scared, his voice shaking with uncertainty.  

That’s when Krishna, who had been silent all this time, speaks up. “Master Gabriel, can I speak to you, privately?” While his language is polite and his tone clipped with its perfect enunciation, there is a clear tremor in his voice. 

As the two older men make their way from the room, speaking in hushed whispers, Jensen looks at Misha, who stares helplessly back at him. Misha gets up from his chair and approaches Jensen hesitantly, kneeling down on the floor in front of the actor.

“You ok, Jen?” he asks softly. 

“Misha, I don’t understand what’s happening! What’s happening _to me_?” Jensen whispers, searching for an explanation in the blue eyes that look softly back into his own. 

“Oh Jensen!” Misha exclaims as he pulls Jensen into his arms, who melts into the embrace unresisting. 

“We’ll find out, okay?” Misha says fiercely, as he rests his chin on Jensen’s shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise!”

Jensen nods, allowing himself to calm down as Misha rubs a hand across his back in soothing circles, and buries his face in Misha’s shoulder. He huffs a soft laugh, snuffling into Misha’s neck as he says, “And here I imagined making out with you when I first saw this room!”

Misha chuckles, a relieved sound, as he leans back, his hands still resting along Jensen’s back, “We still can.” His eyes twinkle in amusement. 

He brings his hands up to Jensen’s face, cupping his jaw lightly as he brushes his thumbs across his cheekbones. “If you want to,” he whispers, his voice as much as his gaze a gentle question. 

“I want to. So damn much!” Jensen says, moving his hands up to bury them in the dark curls at Misha’s nape as he pulls him closer, capturing his lips. 

The kiss starts soft and sweet, a gesture of comfort and support, and Jensen is lost in the feel of Misha’s plush lips moving against his. As he tilts his head to adjust the angle, Misha moves closer, surging up onto his knees, and Jensen can’t stop the sigh that escapes him, opening his mouth for the other man in invitation. It seems to be all the encouragement Misha needs as he deepens the kiss, his tongue licking across Jensen’s lower lip experimentally before diving in. Jensen can taste the tea Misha had earlier, as well as the honey and lemon he added, but under that is a familiar taste, a flavor that is uniquely Misha, and Jensen can never get enough. He surges forward in his seat, sliding down onto the floor opposite Misha, his own tongue getting into the action, and the taste of Misha grows stronger as Jensen licks into his mouth. Misha’s hands tighten into the short hairs at his nape, a sinful groan escaping him at the increased contact between their bodies, and Jensen knows for certain that this man, this blue-eyed whirlwind that breezed into his life two short days ago is here to stay.

 

 

Coffee. A hint of mint toothpaste. Jensen. 

Misha’s senses are drowning in the man in his arms, all instinct focused on the softness of his lips, the heat of his mouth and the wicked invasion of his tongue. 

Misha feels like he has been kissing Jensen forever and yet not enough. As if they have done this same thing, in this very room, coming together countless times before as they are doing now. Eventually the need to breathe makes itself urgently known, and both men gasp as they part their mouths, yet Misha is unable to let go as he rests his forehead against Jensen’s, looking into his green eyes. Their breaths huff against each other as they try to calm down, both smiling at each other. 

“Better?” Misha asks softly. 

Jensen nods, taking a shaky breath. Misha pulls back slightly, one hand cupping Jensen’s cheek, as he rubs a thumb across the sharp jaw. “I’ll get us a drink, yeah?” 

Making his way to the kitchen, Misha hears sharp voices raised in argument just beyond the door. Surprise halts his footsteps just outside the room, mainly because of two things. Gabriel, who Misha has never once known to be serious, is talking in a grave sombre tone, while Krishna, who rarely displays any emotion, is speaking in harsh whispers, his voice laced with barely contained fury. 

“GABE!”

That catches Misha’s attention: he has NEVER heard Krishna call Gabe by his name. 

“What! Krishna, what do you want me to do?” 

“Tell them! You have to tell them the truth.” 

“I can’t,” Gabe whispers, his voice laden with grief. “They have to _remember_ , Krishna!” 

“It’s not fair, and you know it, Gabe. To either of them! Why can’t you see that?” The butler’s voice pleads. 

A loud scrape and a thud signals that a chair has been forcefully pushed back, and Misha presses himself against the wall. “I CAN’T! OKAY? I CAN’T INTERFERE! JUST...JUST LEAVE IT ALONE!” 

Gabe walks out of the kitchen, storming past Misha without seeing him. 

Misha looks at his retreating figure before walking into the kitchen. Krishna sits at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, his posture sagging in dejection. Misha clears his throat, and the man’s head shoots up, his eyes wide in fear and shock. “Mr. Misha! Um..” 

“Hey, Krishna. You okay?” 

Misha watches as Krishna re-adjusts his features into his usual mask of serenity. “Why of...of course! Can… uh.. Can I get you anything?” He turns away from Misha, reaching out to fill a kettle of water. 

There is a faint tremor in Krishna’s arms as he holds the kettle under the faucet, despite his efforts to look composed, “Krishna…”, Misha moves closer to the man, placing a hand on his shoulder, “What is it? C’mon,” he takes the kettle from Krishna’s hands and places it on the counter, as he leads him back to the chair. 

He fills a glass of water from the fridge and pulls a chair closer to Krishna. “I have never, since I have known you, seen you so upset. What’s the matter, Krishna?” 

Krishna shakes his head in resignation, and looking up at Misha with pain-filled eyes, says, “Mr. Misha, I can’t...You…” He stands up abruptly and walks towards the door, but then stops, as if changing his mind. 

“You should take Jensen to the Glen, Misha. Look for the tree,” he says, looking at Misha. His eyes hold an indescribable message that Misha can’t decipher. 

Misha sits there puzzled. _Wait a minute! Did Krishna just call him Misha?!_.  

Still confused, he stands up, pulls out two bottles of water from the fridge and goes back to the library for Jensen. 

He resolves not to talk about what he heard just yet, since Jensen is still shaken from the earlier events, and they have to get through the dinner with movie’s director. 

Soon enough, they hear the car pull up the driveway, and make their way to the sitting room where they are introduced to Ben Edlund, the enigmatic director. He is a thin wiry man, with artfully long hair and a trimmed goatee. His striking grey eyes shine with intelligence, and when he speaks, a soft smile combined with a quirky sense of humour underline his words. 

After they exchange pleasantries and small talk, Krishna announces that dinner is served, and they made their way to the formal dining room. 

“I’m still not convinced about the ending,” Ben Edlund waves his fork in the air to emphasise his point, “I mean, we are telling this grand love story, right, about two men. They loved beyond reason, beyond the constraints of their society, and yes, I know, I know it’s been done before. But I don’t want to Brokeback Mountain this story, you know? The characters, well one of them dying, without any closure for their feelings may have been justified in 1990, the filmmakers could never boldly portray an open relationship, the audience would have picketed the theatres, hell, they _did_ picket the theatres.” 

“But,” he continues, “it’s a different society now. I really feel we should explore the possibility of a happy ending. It’d get more positive reviews for damn sure. Its plausible, even.” 

Misha watches him speak, passionately waving his hands, and clearly the director feels strongly for his characters and the story he wants to tell. Jensen had told him a bit about the movie so he knows it is a period drama, set in pre-independence British India. Jensen himself is playing the part of John Remington, an American soldier who falls in love with a British diplomat. 

Jensen obviously shares the director’s point of view, because he pitches in, “Wait, you mean, what I got in the script is the real ending? I just thought that...well, I thought it was a partial script, you know confidentiality and all. I guess… I don’t know, it felt…” Jensen pauses, searching for the right word, “...incomplete.” 

“Exactly!” Ben exclaims, punching a finger vehemently onto the table.

“I mean, John feeling unworthy of Jimmy’s love after the things he did, you know, the torture and stuff, that I get. But I feel we don’t see Jimmy’s side of things enough, it seems pretty out of character for him to stand there and let John just leave.” Jensen looks around the table. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a very poignant scene, but it just doesn’t feel like the end, to me. I’m sure Cas wouldn’t have let me go that easily.”

Misha’s head shoots up. Jensen realises that suddenly everything, every _one_ , has gone completely still.  

He has a strange deer in the headlights look on his face, eyes rounded in shock, as Gabe stares resolutely down at his plate. 

“Who’s Cas?” Ben questions, breaking the silence. 

“Uh...I don’t..I don’t know.” Jensen backtracks, obviously not wanting to make a scene, again. “Slip of the tongue.” He huffs in embarrassment. 

But he looks significantly at Misha, his lips pursed thinly. His eyes reflect his confusion and for a moment Misha can see that he is terrified. 

Misha reaches for Jensen’s hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and Jensen relaxes a little. 

“You’re right,” a soft voice trembles from the head of the table, belonging to someone that has never been known to speak softly, and Misha is fast beginning to accept today as being the day a lot of notions are broken. 

A soft-spoken Gabe, and a loud, angry Krishna for starters.

“You’re right,” Gabe repeats softly, and looks up at Jensen sitting immediately to his left, “It is...incomplete.” He turns his gaze to Misha with an expression that is equal parts fond and painful before he turns back to the actor. “But it can be changed.” 

His soft brown eyes go wistful then, as if looking at something in the far distance. “ _You_ can change it.” 

Strangely, Gabe is looking at Jensen rather than at Edlund, and Misha can’t be entirely certain that he imagined the emphasis on the “you”. It reminds him of the argument earlier, when Gabe said, _I can’t interfere, they have to remember_. 

Misha feels overwhelmed. Ever since Jensen landed in his life, the questions are piling up faster than he can hope to even begin looking for answers. There are too many connections to the past and Chad’s words from two days...has it only been two days?...ago come back to him. Unfinished business. _Karma_. 

Misha knows what he needs to do. He just hopes Jensen doesn’t think he is certifiably insane for suggesting it.

 

 

Misha: 03.30 p.m.

_Hey Stranger_.

Jensen’s smile is fond as he looks at the latest text message from Misha. 

Deepak is driving him back from another productive meeting with Ben Edlund. 

Since the dinner at Gabe’s on Saturday, Jensen has been busy with meetings with the director, discussing the finer nuances of Jensen’s interpretation of his character. With the impending move to the crew quarters at the Novak estate, there has been barely any time for the two men to meet. They’ve texted intermittently, and frequently Jensen has found himself missing Misha, his smile, his warm chuckle, the way his eyes crinkle in amusement. His _voice_. Yet, if Jensen were to admit honestly, he is spooked. 

The jumble of events - the dreams, the inexplicable thoughts... _memories?_ , the weird coincidences since he met Misha are beginning to scare him. Why does he keep having these flashes of things in the past? He is certain he hasn’t read about the things he seems to “remember” in his exhaustive research of Shimla. Why do his dreams centre on a version of someone eerily similar to Misha? Who is Dean? Who, for that matter, is _Cas_?  

All of these questions have thrown him off-kilter and he needs some time to regain his bearings. So, despite the fact that he misses the man, Jensen has been reluctantly maintaining a distance from Misha.  After all, he has a job to do. 

Still, he finds himself answering the text. 

_Jensen: 03.35 p.m._

_Hey Mish! You wanna get dinner?_  

“You’ve been very quiet, Jensen. Is everything okay?” Deepak’s voice pulls Jensen out if his thoughts.

“Hmm?” 

“Are you okay?” Deepak asks again, his voice laced with concern. “You seem… distracted, the last few days.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Jensen tries to smile, in an attempt to reassure the driver. 

He’s looking out at the green valley laid out below, when the clouds move and the sun shines through, bringing the town far below into focus. The distinctive spire of Christ Church glimmers in the sudden brightness, and something clicks in Jensen’s mind. 

“Actually, can I ask you something?” He tries to quell the sudden uneasiness he feels. God, he’s going to sound crazy! 

“Sure.” 

“Um..that day...at the mall, you know,” he looks at Deepak uncertainly, “can you...can you tell me what happened? Exactly?” 

Deepak squints his eyes in recollection, “Uh...okay. We were walking on The Mall, I was telling you about the sights. Um.. I was telling you the story about Scandal Point, and then you stopped. I think...no, actually I’m sure about this, that you saw Christ Church and then suddenly you were almost frozen. You looked terrified! Then.. uh.. Then you said…” He stops, hesitant, unsure. 

The silence in the car presses down on Jensen, heavy, stifling. Unbearable. 

“What did I say, Deepak?” Jensen whispers, unwilling, unable, to speak. 

“You kept repeating the same thing. ‘Don’t hurt him.’ Over and over. And your voice! It was… it was like you were being tortured. I swear, I have never heard something so chilling!” 

Jensen shakes his head, uncomprehending, “Don’t hurt _who_?” He throws the question to the universe.  

And the answers pops into his head, out of nowhere, but clear as a bell. _Cas_. 

His attention is diverted by the text notification on his phone.

 

_Misha: 03.40 p.m._

_Sure. I can get Chad to close tonight. What time?_

_Jensen: 03.41 p.m._

_I’m on my way to town. I can pick you up at the store?_  

Misha: 03.41 p.m.

_Yes please! God, I missed you! :)_

 

Jensen can’t help the grin spreading across his face. “Deepak, swing by Misha’s bookstore, we’re picking him up for dinner.”

Deepak smiles. “Of course, Jensen. We can be there in 15 minutes.”

 

_Jensen: 03.42 p.m._

_Me too. We’ll be there by 4. Is that ok?_  

_Misha: 03.43 p.m._

_Perfect! See you soon!_

 

“You like Misha,” Deepak observes, a soft smile on his lips.

Jensen rolls his eyes to hide his blush, “He’s… nice, yes.” 

“Jensen, you light up when you’re with him!” Deepak looks at him meaningfully. “He’s good for you. I can’t explain it, but… the two of you...you seem to have a connection.” 

“Connection?” Jensen shifts uncomfortably, twisting towards the driver to get a better look at his face. What the driver is saying is hitting a little too close to what has been happening. 

“Have you heard of Karma?” 

“Well, yeah. It means whatever happens to someone happens because of what they have done in the past. You know, like if you do good stuff then good stuff will happen to you,” Jensen muses, trying to recall what he knows about the concept. 

“I suppose that is one way of looking at it. Although that is a very...western, way of looking at it, I guess. It’s like… for us, Karma is a result of one’s past actions, yes, but not just across one birth. We believe that the soul, it will keep repeating the cycle of birth and death again and again, until their karma has been balanced. So, if there are any actions, or desires, that remained unfulfilled in your past life, the soul is compelled to be reborn until those desires are fulfilled.” 

“So, what you’re saying is, reincarnation?” Jensen asks incredulously. 

“Yes!” Deepak exclaims, “That’s exactly what I mean!” 

Jensen scoffs, “Just because there’s a ‘connection’ between Misha and I doesn’t mean anything, Deepak. It could just be good chemistry.” 

“Maybe the ‘chemistry’ itself is a result of some past life connection, no?” Deepak looks shrewdly at the his passenger, “But that’s not the only thing, Jensen. It’s...Okay, don’t laugh, but there’s something about you too. You know, when you’ve gone sightseeing. You never seem to realise it, but you’re the one that always suggests taking a particular road or trail. Even ones that I don’t know of. Sometimes, it’s almost like you’ve been to Shimla before.” 

Jensen has no idea how to process this. Two weeks ago, he would have laughed outright at such a notion, but since coming to Shimla, and specially since meeting Misha, there are too many coincidences that seem to point to one inevitable, unbelievable conclusion. 

He honestly doesn’t know if he believes in such an ephemeral concept as re-incarnation, nor is he certain he wants to be caught up in some strange past life theory psycho-babble. 

And yet, a niggling thought at the back of his mind is insistent, _What if?_

 

 

Misha’s list

  1. sense of longing, waiting, why am **_I_** connected to Shimla?
  2. History week
  3. CAS
  4. Clock and key
  5. Gabe’s library
  6. Gabe & Krishna: remember what? who?



 

Jensen’s list

  1. panic attack at The Mall
  2. Who is CAS?!!!!
  3. the tunnels
  4. the clock



 

While he waits for Jensen, Misha looks at the two lists he has been making since this morning. 

He hasn’t seen Jensen since the Saturday lunch at Gabe’s, four days ago. It gave him ample time to do some thinking about the weirdness that has escalated since he met Jensen, perhaps even since he landed in Shimla. 

Misha remembers the morning when the feeling of longing had spiked, nearly two weeks ago. He tries to keep it unconnected to Jensen but a niggling voice at the back of his mind reminds him that it was the weekend when Jensen was _on his way to Shimla._ And really, not counting the incident during History Week, that seems to be the starting point for this whole mess. 

All his ruminating is pointing him to possibilities that sound crazy, to put it mildly, but he has lived in India long enough to know their Vedic beliefs. Not just know, but _understand_ the philosophical arguments, if not the theological ones. And Misha is reluctant to voice this, but reincarnation is a _big one_ . In fact, from what he understands, reincarnation is at the root of much of the Hindu interpretation of _fate_ and _destiny_ , their inherent belief of Karma and the soul.  

Misha decides that he needs to approach Jensen with facts, rather than philosophy, so as to not sound _completely_ insane when he proposes what he is going to. Maybe having all the abnormalities lined up will make Jensen see what is fast becoming clear to Misha. This is what prompted him to list the...what does he even call these? Memories? Glimpses to the past? He isn’t certain, himself.  

One thing Misha is sure of: whatever it is, it concerns Jensen and himself, but also perhaps Gabe and Krishna, and he at least has a starting point to look for answers.

At least now he has a plan of action. With this in mind, Misha puts both the lists in his pocket and makes his way to the front of the store to wait for Jensen. 

When Jensen walks into the store only a few minutes later, his face lights up with a broad grin.  Misha knows, of course, that it is impossible for a place to brighten, by the mere presence of someone, but physics was never his strong suit, and Jensen _is here_ , solid and sure, with his smile that can melt glaciers, so physics can take a running jump in a lake, for all he cares.  

He doesn’t remember when he moved but Misha doesn’t care because he has missed Jensen (God, so much!), and somehow Jensen’s strong arms envelop him in a tight hug, and Misha is never letting go. How? How is it that this man, whom he has hardly known for a week, feels so familiar, so… integral to his life, his _being_?  

Misha pulls Jensen by the hand, practically dragging him into his office, and proceeds to kiss him senseless. Because he can. Because he must. And Jensen makes no protest as he responds. Someone, could be both, is uttering exhaled declarations of “I missed you” in the pauses, and all Misha can think, incoherently, is _why the fuck are there_ **_pauses_ **?  

“Mish! Mish, wait,” Jensen breathes against his lips. 

What an absurd idea, Misha thinks. “Why??!” 

“Because... _kiss_ ...If you don’t... _kiss.._ .I… _kiss..._ won’t be able to.” 

“So don’t...don’t stop. Let’s just... live here.” 

Jensen laughs. “In your bookstore?” 

_What’s so wrong with that?_ Misha pouts. “Yep, right here. I’ll shut down the store!” 

Jensen holds his face in his hands, looking into his eyes. “Right.” Jensen seems to be having a hard time controlling his laughter. “And… what about…Mmmppf” 

Misha surges forward, capturing his lips again. And it’s Jensen’s fault, really. Because if he just _stopped talking_ Misha’s eyes wouldn’t be drawn to his perfect plump lips. Something tells him his plan to shut out the world has a serious flaw, but his brain refuses to examine the thought until...

“Ahem...Er...Boss?”

Oh, that. 

Misha reluctantly stops. Just long enough to say, “Go away, Chad. The store’s closed.” 

“I thought you were going to dinner.”

“No we…”

Jensen, who has been shaking with barely suppressed laughter, chooses then to let go. His laugh is a wonderful thing, Misha thinks. Head thrown back in abandon, his entire body vibrates with the sound. Deep throaty chuckles rumble in his chest and Misha stares, mesmerised. 

Making an attempt to calm down, Jensen looks past Misha’s shoulder at Chad, who is still hesitating at the door, and gasps out, “Yes! Yes, we are.” 

Both hands on Misha’s shoulders, he firmly turns him towards the door and starts pushing him out. “C’mon, Grumpy! Let’s get you fed!” 

As he passes Chad in the doorway he says, “I, uh, I dig the haircut.” 

“All business up front, party in the back, man!” 

It is, unwittingly, such an innuendo for how he caught them that Misha can’t control himself, and bursts out in giggles. Jensen looks at him strangely, and Misha wiggles his eyebrows at him, mouthing _party in the back_. He can see the moment Jensen gets it, because his eyes widen comically, and then they are both laughing hysterically.   


 

Saturday night, Jensen moves into his room at the Novak estate, and he dreams again. It is the first time the dream is a coherent sequence rather than a jumbled mess of images and sounds and raw emotions.

Jensen stands on the back verandah of Gabriel’s home; leaning against the white marble balustrade, he looks out at the expansive estate grounds in the early dawn light. 

His coffee cup is a warm comfort in his palms; he feels reluctant to make his way upstairs to dress for the day.  The room he has been given for the duration of his stay is familiar and welcoming. Like with most things in Shimla, the sense of having been here before is a constant reminder of his talk with Deepak. The concept of reincarnation and karma keeps percolating in his mind. He knows Misha has been trying to talk to him about the events of the past few days, but Jensen is reluctant to admit just how much this strange scenario has preoccupied his mind. He barely managed to avoid the conversation at dinner on Friday, though with great difficulty. 

He knows on the one hand he is impossibly attracted to Misha, and not just sexually. There is an emotional compatibility that he has never yet experienced. In the privacy of his thoughts, Jensen goes so far as to admit that he may be falling for the man, may already have fallen. 

But doubts rise and fade, like bubbles on water, much like the images from the dream last night that run in a loop in his head. The memory of it is sharp and vivid. The man, Dean, looked so much like Jensen himself, perhaps _was_ Jensen himself. And Cas, the Cas that has haunted his earlier dreams solidified, superimposed onto Misha. Their love a palpable, strong presence as they carved their initials into a pine tree, no, Devdhar, that’s what _Cas_ had called it. The God Tree. The intertwined D and C of their names joining and curling around each other. _Married_ , as Dean had jokingly observed. 

He has a sudden urge to see if this tree, this marriage exists. That would surely be a sign. If this tree exists in the real world, perhaps there is some credence to this whole idea. And if it doesn’t, well at least they can agree that whatever else it may be, at least the whole thing isn’t some weird sci-fi meets supernatural load of crap. 

He tries to remember finer details of the dream to try to pinpoint the likely location. It was in a forest of similar trees, possibly pine, which describes pretty much all of Shimla, so that isn’t much help. Jensen also distinctly remembers water. A lake or river. And was there...a... waterfall? Yeah, there was definitely the sound of roaring water. Okay, That’s better.  Trees, waterfall, river/lake. Jensen is sure he has been to this place on one of his day trips during the early days in Shimla. Waterfall....waterfall… He rushes back to his room for his phone, scrolling through the photos. _There. That’s the one._ He checks the date. Oh! It was the same day he went to the American bar, and met Misha!  What.. what was it called? Ah, what the heck he’ll ask Misha, he is a guide after all.

 

_Jensen: 08.00 a.m._

_Hey what’s the place that has the waterfall and all the pine trees?_

_Jensen: 08.00 a.m._

_Good Morning, BTW! Jumped the gun, there! :)_

 

He comes back from his shower to find a reply from Misha.

 

_Misha: 08.16 a.m._

_GM to you too! :) The place you’re thinking of is probably the Glen. Why?_

 

Should he tell Misha about his idea? Perhaps this is something he should see for himself first.

 

_Jensen: 08.25 a.m._

_Nothing, just need to check something. Will call you later._

 

Jensen knows he sounded a bit abrupt, but hopefully Misha will understand his motivation.

 

_Misha: 08.26 a.m._

_Have fun. Miss you._

 

_Jensen: 08.26 a.m._

_Me too._

 

A hurried breakfast and an hour later Jensen is fidgeting anxiously in his seat as the car climbs the snaking roads up to the Glen. A nervous anticipation, like a child hiding to catch a glimpse of Santa at midnight, flutters in his stomach. Deepak keeps giving him worried looks and faint smiles, but doesn’t attempt talking, his uncanny silence radar on full alert. 

At the Glen, Jensen barely waits for the car to stop before he’s rushing out of the car. He runs towards the waterfall first, hoping something will jog his memory, because otherwise looking for one particular tree in the the literal forest is probably going to take him all day and that’s just nuts. The almost familiar roar of the waterfall draws him in, and as he approaches the river bank a jolt of shock passes through him. The air seems to buzz with a strange static energy as he stops and looks at the falling cascade, mesmerised by the rainbow arc created in the spray. 

He doesn’t think. His mind blanks of all thought, all doubt as he allows his heart to just be. Instinct must guide his steps because he begins walking despite making no conscious effort to move. Almost in a daze, he finds himself drawn towards a copse of trees that are closer together, their thick trunks creating a obstructing the view of what lies on the other side. As he approaches, he sees a secluded alcove, cloaked in privacy by the giant pines that stand as sentries around the enclosed space.

His heart is in his mouth, his steps tentative as he enters the grove. He is acutely aware of the silence that pervades the space, not a bird chirps, even the sound of the waterfall is strangely muted. Nervous, anxious, scared, terrified, he feels it all, and still he moves forward, one step, then another, searching. Squinting, zooming onto the broad expanse of ridged bark, tree after tree. 

He turns in a circle, scanning, looking for a man made mark, and finds none. 

Huh! He feels...disappointed? His head droops with its own weight, he had been so certain. Somewhere between making the decision this morning, and the drive his mind had gone from wanting to disprove the theory to proving it. That there would be… 

“Jensen?!” 

Shock, surprise, incredulity on his face as he turns towards the voice, “Misha?! What are you doing here?” 

“Uh… I came because...um...when you asked about the Glen, I remembered something Krishna said to me the other day. What about you? I thought you were at Gabe’s?” 

“Yes. Yes, I was. I…” Jensen rubs a hand across his face, embarrassed. “I wanted to check something, uh...” He can feel his face heating up. 

“Check...what... I don’t understand.” 

“Ahh, it’s … nah, nothing.” Because really, that is precisely what he found, isn’t it? A big nothing! “It’s not important,” Jensen declares, turning away to walk back out of the clearing that suddenly feels too small, closing in claustrophobically. 

“Jen,” Misha says softly, urging, “I can see it’s not nothing. What is it?” 

Jensen is almost at the edge of the trees now, can see the waterfall through the foliage. He shakes his head in resignation: might as well tell him. It’s not like Misha hasn’t been witness to his bouts of crazy recently. “A tree, okay! I was looking for a tree.” 

He hears a surprised gasp, a sharp inhale before Misha says, voice somewhat higher in his incredulity, “A tree?!” 

“Yeah, I… I had a dream. Last night. About...well.” He turns back towards Misha, emphasising his words with a look heavy with meaning. “About someone called _Dean_ . And _Cas_ . And a _tree_ , with a D and a C carved into it.” He nearly spits the names, disgusted with himself for beginning to believe. To _hope_. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s not here anyway.” 

He starts turning away again, ready to go back to reality, to _sanity_ , when suddenly Misha is right next to him, holding his elbow to stop him. “Jen. Jensen, wait,” he breathes out. “Come with me.”  

Misha nudges at his elbow, prompting him to move, and Jensen follows. Misha leads him further into the clearing, so close to its inner edge, that the sound of the waterfall is muted completely. He stops at a large tree, its trunk broader even than the surrounding trees. The tree itself rises majestically, reaching for the sky, and a reverent gasp escapes Jensen, “Devdhar!” 

But as his gaze moves down to eye-level, he goes still. His skin feels too hot or too cold. He doesn’t know, he feels goosebumps pimpling across his arms and neck. He stares in awe, in fear, in wonder. 

There, carved into the old, wooden, gnarled surface of the tree are the intertwined D and C. Exactly as he saw them. Identical to the one he saw. He _dreamed_! 

Jensen stares for minutes, hours. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, agape. He feels Misha move closer, slip his hand into Jensen’s. Misha squeezes his hand in his large warm one, and that’s what brings reality crashing in. 

Jensen jerks away from Misha. “No! This...It’s not. Shit!

He buries his hands in his hair, pulling, tugging, perhaps he is still dreaming. But no, it pains when he tugs harshly. He’s awake. He becomes aware of tears, rolling down across his cheeks. _Why_?  

Misha’s worried voice, “Jen! Jensen, what the fuck? Talk to me, goddamit!” 

Something in Jensen snaps, “You want me to talk, Misha? Okay! Okay, I’ll _talk_.” He pulls Misha roughly, his fingers digging painfully in his the arm, “This D? That’s DEAN! C? CAS! You want to know what I dreamed? Dean was me, Cas was you. Creepy enough for you? No? How about this, Dean,” he punches a finger to himself, “and Cas,” he pushes his finger at Misha, “carved THIS!” 

Misha’s eyes go wide, staring, darting between Jensen and the tree.

But Jensen is not done. Now that he’s started, the word vomit won’t stop. “Oh yeah! Though, that’s...that’s not all, no. This,” he gestures violently at the tree again, “This means, apparently, that we’re fucking _married_ ! How do you like that, huh, Mish? Did you think, when you woke up today, that you’d gain a fucking _husband_ before the day was out?” 

“Jen…” 

“NO! Just, no. Okay? I’ve had enough. Fuck this _SHIT_ !” Jensen kicks at the tree, ignoring the pain that shoots up his leg, and walks out. He stops. Turns towards a stunned Misha, “I really thought...I was falling for you, Mish. I… How do…” He wants to tell Misha. But words fail him, he’s fucking this up even more, he watches as Misha’s face crumbles, deep lines etching his forehead. He adds, hoping Misha understands, “How can I be sure it’s **me** ? My feelings? Not, not this Dean’s?” He flaps his hand helplessly once again, towards the tree, the irrefutable proof of what was. What _is_.  

Then he turns and walks out, finally. Leaving Misha standing there, forlorn, alone.  
And this time he doesn’t even bother to stop the sense of deja vu. That he has done this before. Walked away as Misha, no _Cas_ , stood, heartbroken, in this very place.


	7. ACT VI: MOKSHA: FREEDOM

 

__

 

_Tat Tvam Asi. You are That._

_~_ _Chandogya Upanishad_ _6.8.7_

  


The crumpled paper on Misha’s desk stares at him as he sits despondently at his desk, his head clutched in his hands. He scoffs at his “plans”. While he made stupid lists in order to ease Jensen into a suggestion, a possibility, a theory, Reality took a hammer in its hands and smashed it against Jensen’s head with all the subtlety of a Mack truck. What the hell is he supposed to do now? He wants to forget this whole mess, because truly, all it has done so far is take from him. His peace. His friends. Even his home. (And isn’t that the greatest irony? It’s been more than a decade that he thought of US-of-fucking-A as “home”). But now, worst of all, it has taken from him the one thing, the one person who made all of it seem worth it. For the first time in forever, he met someone who calmed his ever restless heart while at the same time made it race in anticipation. Jensen is everything Misha wants, needs. He doesn’t care whether there is a past life connection, he wants the one that IS. He wants the NOW. Frustrated, he crumples the list, flinging it across the room.

He wants _Jensen_ , dammit. He wants the chance to let this..this whatever it is (Misha knows it’s love, but he doubts Jen’s there yet) _become_ . He wants him back. The only way to get him back is to get answers explaining this shit, and there’s only one place he can think of. He scoffs as gets up from his desk, now he thinks he understands what Gabe meant, _who_ Gabe meant, when he said _They have to remember_. Well, Jensen remembered. Misha doesn’t need to remember. He doesn’t care. He’ll accept whichever reality Jensen wants to accept, the then, the now, both. So long as he has Jensen back. 

Misha has just passed the main township on his way to the Novak House when his phone rings. He is disappointed to see it isn’t Jensen (not that he thought Jensen would call, after this morning), but he answers it anyway. Chad has gone to Solan, a nearby village, to collect the stuff for their display from an artist who carves puppets and idols from wood. 

“Chad, hi.” 

“Hey Boss. Where are you?” 

“On my way to Gabe’s. Why? Are you back?” 

“Um… no. I’m still in Solan. The friggin’ car broke down! And the mechanic’s out of town.” 

“Can you take the bus?” 

“I tried, but there’s no bus until later this evening. Can you come get me?” 

Misha has been victim to the unreliable State Transport buses himself. Several times. If the evening bus gets cancelled, Chad could be stuck in Solan overnight. It’s not that long of a drive to Solan, just over an hour. 

“Okay. Okay. Text me the directions to the artist’s and wait there. I’ll be there by half past one.” 

Reluctantly, Misha shoves aside the urgent need for answers and turns the car around, leading out of the city. 

With his thoughts in a constant whirl between Jensen, and the revelations this morning, Misha doesn’t even register the time passing as he drives to Solan. Checking his message from Chad, Misha follows the directions to the artist’s house-slash-workshop. He pulls over when he sees Chad waving him down. 

“Misha! Thanks for making the trip, man.” 

“I wasn’t gonna leave you here, Chad. Is everything packed?” 

“Yup, just need to load the boxes.” 

Misha follows Chad inside, hoping to fetch the boxes and be on their way. He really should have known better. 

He forgot about the Indian hospitality mantra, _Atithi Devo Bhava_ \- A guest is God. No sooner do they enter the humble cottage, the artist’s wife urges them to sit down. Before they know it _Have something, just some chai_ becomes, _Oh you can’t have chai alone, you must try these, Sudha makes very tasty samosas_ and suddenly there’s platters of delicious fried snacks and _Mithai_ , Indian sweets, being brought out from the cozy kitchen. 

Reluctantly, Misha finds himself giving in. Soon they are digging into the food, and chatting with the artist, Ganesh, and his wife Sudha, about their art and its origins. 

“My grandfather, he is originally from South. He is coming here with British soldiers when he was only twenty. He worked in mess, cooking, cleaning, all those things. Afterwards, independence happened. Then British soldiers are all gone, so he work as gardener for the English sahibs who stayed here. He used to take me with him to Gabriel saheb’s house, when I was small too.” 

That explains at least how Gabe came across this artist. Misha looks around at the house, and examples of Ganesh’s art are littered all over the place. The carved wooden idols are mostly depictions of deities and goddesses, but there are also some colourfully decked puppets. One particular set catches his eye: a shelf of male and female dolls, dressed in silken clothes and jewellery. All the female dolls wear red _sari_ s or _salwar_ suits, the traditional attire of the Hindu bride. Misha gets up to take a closer look. He turns around, about to ask Ganesh about them, when an elderly man comes out of one of the inner rooms. He is slightly stooped, a full head of cotton-white hair crowning his wrinkled forehead.  

As he sees Misha, however, the wrinkles deepen as his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he stumbles. Misha rushes to help, but Ganesh is closer. He steadies the other man, “ _Dadaji! Kya hua?_ ”

The grandfather stares in wide-eyed horror and points straight at Misha, “Ca...Castiel _saheb!!_ ” 

“No _Dadaji_ ,” Ganesh looks apologetically at Misha, “This is Mr. Misha. From Shimla?” 

“No! No! It is… it is Castiel _saheb_.” The old man continues to mutter to himself. 

Misha is too stunned to react. Jensen’s dream about Misha looking like (being?) Cas is one thing, it can be chalked up to a mixing of realities by the subconscious mind. But here, in this tiny hamlet, an actual living person is calling him Castiel, and Misha has reached the limit of attributing things to “coincidence”. 

“Okay, it’s okay, Ganesh. It’s fine. Can I… can I talk to your...your grandfather?” 

“Boss?” Chad is looking at him questioningly, and Misha holds up a hand mouthing _Just wait_. 

Ganesh looks puzzled, but nods at Misha anyway. 

“Um, I…” and stalls. How to ask what he wants without sounding crazy? “Ganesh, what’s his name?” 

“Gopalan.” 

Misha looks at the old man, gentle, calm despite the roiling anxiety inside him. 

“Gopalan, how...how do you know Cas...Castiel?” 

Gopalan is still staring at Misha in wonder, “Castiel saheb, it is you! You don’t remember? Your brother, Gabriel saheb?” A confused look comes into his eyes, his lips turning down in a puzzled frown, “but Gabriel saheb is looking very old now.” he says sadly. The he brightens up. “Captain saheb called you Cas!” 

So he was at least correct that Gabe did have something to do with this. Then it registers, “Cap..Captain?” 

Gopalan nods enthusiastically. “Yes. Captain Winchester. Very smart man, yes? Always smiling and joking all the time.” 

“Do you...know...Captain Winchester’s name? His full name?” He has a strong suspicion what it is going to be, but might as well get full confirmation. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

“We are not calling him by christian name like that, you know. He was officer!” Gopalan goes thoughtful, trying to remember, “Um.. it was… something D… David...no… short name...Dan?” 

“Dean?” Misha supplies, his voice a ragged whisper. 

“Yes!! Yes, Captain Dean Winchester.” Gopalan confirms. “I teach him too, just like I teach my Ganesh.” 

“Teach what? What did he teach you?” Misha asks, looking at Ganesh. 

“Wood carving,” Ganesh tells him, “ _Dadaji_ taught me how to carve since I was little.” 

“Yes!” Gopalan agrees, “I teach Captain saheb the carving. He make dolls, like that,” he points to the shelf with the bridal dolls, “two dolls.” 

“Dean…” Misha still hesitates on saying the name, “Dean learnt how to make _bridal_ dolls?” 

“Not… no bride. He make two man dolls. One for him, one for his friend Cas.” But what he says next sends a shiver down Misha’s spine, all the confirmation he needs supplied by a frail old man in an obscure village. “One green clothes, like his eyes, and one blue clothes, like Castiel saheb’s, like your eyes.” 

Misha sits back heavily in his seat. Pieces start to fall into place in the puzzle in his head. He, Misha, is Cas. Castiel. Confirmed. Jensen is Dean, also confirmed (almost, many people have green eyes, but with everything else, he’s willing to accept that as enough proof). Castiel is Gabriel’s brother. 

“Misha? Boss, what’s happening? What is he talking about?” Apparently Chad is done playing spectator. 

Misha looks at him, remembering when Chad, wise Chad, MIT fucking Chad, had hit on the correct nail all along. “Remember what you said? At the bar? Reincarnation.” 

“What, really? You’re kidding me!” 

“That’s what it seems to be.” Misha nods. “I’m done running away from the possibility.”

 

 

Jensen stares at the ceiling in his room at Novak Estate. 

He has spent the entire day since the morning at the Glen in his room. His thoughts have tumbled in a vicious cycle of despair, anger, loss, and guilt. 

In the gloomy silence of the surroundings, the low growl a car pulling up to the porch drifts to his window. He hears voices in the foyer, but his room is too far away for him to make out voices or words, which suits him just fine. Now he can go back to studying the curlicue patterns on the high ceiling. 

Or not. A soft knock at the door interrupts his lassitude. 

“Come in, Krishna.” He knows it’s Krishna, even his door knocking has a quiet dignity. 

“Mr. Ackles, Master Gabe requests if you could come downstairs, please.” 

“Oh. Everything okay?” 

“Yes, Sir.” He hesitates, but then with a significant look says, “Ahem, Mr. Misha is here.” 

There is no way Krishna knows anything of this morning’s events, and yet, the way he looks at Jensen is heavy with meaning, and something else. Is that... _fondness_? 

Jensen sighs. He had hoped to have his thoughts in order before seeing Misha again, but he still has no clue what to say to him. 

“Alright. I’ll be down in a minute.” 

“They’re waiting in the sitting room.” Krishna bows in acknowledgment, then softly closes the door on his way out. 

Jensen makes his way down, his heart thudding...whether in anxiety or anticipation he doesn’t know. 

Misha and Gabe are sitting on one of the couches, quietly talking. Misha looks pale and shaken, a five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. There are the beginnings of dark circles beneath his eyes, making a striking contrast with the intensity of their blue. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. What makes Jensen wince, however, is the fact that that wasn’t how Misha looked this morning. 

As he enters the sitting room, Misha and Gabe both look up from their conversation. Misha’s face lights up seeing him, and he gets up and walks towards him, before hesitating as his smile falters. “Jen. Um..Hi.” 

“Hey Misha, what’s up?” he asks, looking at Gabe. 

“Jensen, there’s something I need to tell you. Both,” Gabe begins, but is interrupted by Misha. 

“Let me tell him about this morning first.” He looks at Jensen as he gestures to the adjoining couch. “Something happened earlier.” 

“Yeah, Mish, I know, I was there.” Jensen barely stops himself from snapping, he really doesn’t walk to talk about this morning just yet, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about it in front of Gabe.

“Not… not that. Something _else_ .” Misha quickly recounts the conversation with Gopalan. “And, it seems Gabe here needs to come clean on certain details, like the small matter of _Cas being his brother._ ”

“What?!” Jensen sits there, stunned. He’s not sure what to think. Specially about Gabe, Gabriel Novak, his producer, being so intricately involved in what’s been happening with Misha and him. 

“It’s true,” Gabe finally speaks up, his normally boisterous voice subdued, tremulous. “Cas… Castiel is... _was_ my younger brother. He was such a shy, sweet kid. Always following the rules, never disobeying the family dictat. His rare smiles were what I lived for. It was one of the reasons I played so many pranks, to get him to smile, and once he even laughed. I remember standing frozen, just watching him, as he was bent double, gasping but unable to stop.” His eyes fill with tears, remembering, “You know, I don’t even remember what the prank was, now.  I just remember his laugh. But then Dean Winchester came into his life, he pushed his way in through Cas’ reserve, and my brother was a changed man. He smiled all the time, he laughed, hell, _he joked_. That had never happened before!” 

“I saw it happen in front of my eyes, both of them falling in love. I was worried, of course I was, I was scared for them. Homosexuality just wasn’t acceptable in those days, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass about that. My brother was happy, and goddam but I would have done anything to keep that. I was determined. Whatever Cas and Dean needed, however I could help, I was going to do it. And then one day, it seemed like it was all falling into place. The Viceroy declared the Crown’s decision to give India her independence, and Cas would finally get a chance to be free of the family obligation. Dean would be able to get out of military service too. They could finally be together, here, if they wanted.” 

“Wait a minute,” Jensen interrupts, “That’s what the movie is about! That’s their story? Dean and Cas?” 

“Yes. I’m afraid that was my not so subtle attempt to get you here.” 

Jensen and Misha both look at him incredulously, “You knew?” Jensen asks, “All this time, _you_ _knew_?” 

Gabe nods, looking slightly sheepish, “Allow me to explain. You know how the movie ends, that is pretty much what I know happened. You see, when Cas came back to Shimla, he had been so excited, he truly believed that Dean and he would finally be together, without one or the other of them having to leave. So imagine my surprise, and fury, honestly, when a few hours later I held the sobbing mess that was my brother, as he told me what had happened. How Dean had broken things off with him. The thing was, Cas never, not once believed it. He was so certain he would find out what had happened, and so determined to fight for Dean when he left the house the next morning. I saw him leave that day, and he never came back.” 

Jensen was so entranced by the story that the abrupt silence is like a bucket of ice water. It shocks him into whispering, “What happened?” 

“I don’t… I didn’t know what happened, for a long time. Cas just...disappeared. That same night, Dean cleaned out his room at the barracks and left Shimla, and for a long time I blamed him, that he had done something to my brother. I was wrong. So terribly wrong.” Gabe breaks down, sobs wracking his body, and for the first time, in maybe forever, Gabe looks like a frail old man. 

Krishna, who has been standing silently, unobtrusive, moves then, to Gabe’s side, an arm around his shaking shoulders, and Jensen sees the mask of “servant” drop as the friend takes over. He continues the narrative, “We didn’t know the truth until many years later. With the increased tourism in Shimla, Master Gabriel decided to convert the barracks into a backpacker’s hostel. It was an ideal layout, we just needed some renovations to the existing structure. One day the contractor called us in a panic. They had found…” Krishna seems to be having difficulty speaking, both older men clinging to each other, their faces etched with grief, “they f… found a... skeleton. Buried in a small bricked up alcove. It...it was Ma...master Ca...Castiel. And there was a me...message. For Dean.” A wail from Gabe breaks through, loud sobs heaving, as Jensen and Misha sit, stunned, helpless. 

Jensen doesn’t know when he moved, but he’s sitting much closer to Misha now than when Gabe started talking, and with a start he realises their hands are clutched tight in each others. Jensen tears his gaze away from Krishna, from Gabe, and looks at Misha, and tears are running down his cheeks. Misha makes no attempt to wipe them, so Jensen reaches out a hand to brush the wetness. Misha looks at Jensen, miserable, confused and moves to kneel on the floor next to Gabe, his hand rubbing soothingly on the other’s shoulder, trying to comfort his friend. 

Interminable minutes pass. 

Gabe looks at Misha, and his eyes shine with love. He places a hand on Misha’s cheek, “When you walked in here the first time, I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t decide if it was just a fluke of nature, or whether the universe was returning my brother to me. For a long time, I debated whether to say something, to tell you. That was why I asked you to stay here, in the house, instead of the hostel. When I got to know you, you were so unique, so different from my Cas, that I doubted myself. But then you found the key, and wound the clock, and that...that was when I _knew_. I did have my brother back. My Cas had come home.” Gabe sighs, kissing Misha on the forehead.  

Something has been niggling at Jensen, though. “But how did you know about me? I’ve never been here before.” 

“Krishna, show him,” he says, and Krishna brings a red file folder, one of those ancient types that tie with a string on top. He hands it to Jensen, who opens the string, reverently lifting the top flaps. 

The first thing he sees is a photograph. It is an old black and white image, its sepia tones faded with time. Two men sit side by side in the large chaise longue in the library, their arms around each other. The intimacy between them apparent in the light in their eyes, the ease of their smiles as they gaze at each other. Jensen holds the photo for Misha to see. It is unmistakably, irrefutably, without a doubt, _them_.

Misha’s gasp echoes what Jensen himself is feeling. He looks at Gabe, who continues, “You were hard to find, I admit. I actually have Alfie to thank for that. The TV in the common room was broken, so he came here to watch his show. The show that _you_ star in. I only had to take one look, and I knew.” He pointed at Jensen. He shrugs, tapping a finger at his temple. “I’m a trickster, I’m used to planning a long con.” 

“But why? Why would you want to bring _me_ back? If your script is accurate, I’m an asshole who broke Cas’ heart!” Jensen exclaims, disgusted at himself. Well, the person he was when he was Dean. (He tries not to think about how he almost did the same to Misha just this morning.) 

Gabe smiles sadly, “Look in the folder. You’ll see why.” 

Jensen puts the photo on the coffee table in front of him. The first thing he sees is a letter from a Samuel Winchester, addressed to Gabriel. He scans through it quickly. It advises Gabe of the passing of Dean Winchester, and his instructions in his will. A packet that Dean wanted sent to Gabriel. Beneath the letter is a leather bound journal, with an old-style metal clasp. Jensen opens the journal, the first line on the first page catching his eye. 

_Castiel is dead. My Cas died, because of me. I killed him._  

Jensen gasps, his hands trembling, he clutches the journal. “NO!! No. no. Just no!”

He stands, unable to face the grieving older brother. Grieving, because of him, apparently. He rushes out of the room, climbing the stairs two at a time, back to his room. 

He can barely believe that in a past life he was Dean Winchester. But to believe that he was a cold blooded murderer? Of the man he had supposedly loved? 

How does one even begin to believe _that_?

 

 

“I’m sorry, Mish! I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before.” Gabe is still crying. It seems all his grief for his little brother is pouring out of him through his eyes, not that he has allowed it to. 

“No, shh, Gabe. I understand.” 

And strangely, Misha does. If Gabe had said any of this to him twenty years ago, Misha would have called him crazy and walked out of Novak House, and perhaps even Shimla right that moment. It makes sense now, why Gabe told Krishna he wanted them to remember. None of this would have sounded possible, sane even, if both Jensen and Misha had not had the experiences of the past few days. 

Krishna helps Gabe out of the room. They have both been emotionally wrung out, and Gabe definitely looks like he needs a rest. 

Misha goes through the rest of the folder Jensen left behind. There’s some more photographs, of Dean and Cas, but also of Gabe with Dean and Gabe with Cas. Misha’s sifts through them slowly. His eyes linger on some, taking in the similarities between who they were then and who they are now. Dean smiles as easily, as beatifically as Jensen, but his eyes shine with more mischief than Jensen’s. Cas, on the other hand, is a mystery. In some photos, the ones with Gabe, he is usually stoic and serious, nothing like Misha. Rarely, a shy smile lifts one corner of his mouth, but it is nothing in comparison to how he smiles in his photos with Dean. There, Cas’ smile is brilliant, radiant, even teasing and it transforms his personality. He looks much more like Misha in those photos, and he wonders if his soul decided to be reborn only with the personality of Dean’s Cas. 

The last photo in the pile is more recent, and Misha nearly drops it in shock.

It shows a brick wall, stained with dark marks that can only be ancient blood. _His_ blood. Misha thinks dazedly. Well, Castiel’s. But what his eyes are glued to are the words etched painstakingly, the letters uneven and haphazard. Misha is certain that these words were etched by Castiel, alone in the dark, knowing he was dying, and it  is apparent that he never gave up on Dean.  

Castiel’s last words clang repeatedly, clarion-like, in Misha’s head. His last message to Dean, written literally in his blood (and Misha tries not to imagine the agony of tearing your own fingernails to...how much Cas must have loved Dean! How much faith he had in Dean’s love!).

 

MY DEAN

MY LOVE

I FORGIVE YOU

There’s an attempt at writing something in Hindi, but then all it says is GITA 222.

 

7 & 7 MORE

FOREVER

I LOVE YOU

 

_I forgive you. I love you._ The two phrases echo in Misha’s mind.  

He needs to show this to Jensen, right now. He rushes upstairs to Jensen’s room, but the door hangs open, the room bare. He looks for him everywhere, and finally finds him, out on the back verandah. 

Jensen sits in one of the wicker chairs, the journal lying open on his lap, as he stares into the distance. 

“Jen, you have to see this. Look,” Misha shows him the photograph. “It’s from the wall where I… uh, where Cas died.” 

Jensen just stares at it for a long time. “What…” His voice cracks, heavy. “Uh, what is this bit?” he asks, pointing to the Hindi text. 

“I think...I think it’s a verse. From the Bhagvad Gita.,” Misha says. “I thought we’d check it out together?” he asks, hopeful, hesitant. 

Jensen just nods and stands. Misha knows there is a well preserved copy of the Bhagvad Gita there. “Gabe always said his brother, well I guess he meant Cas, was enamoured by the Gita, its teachings.” 

He moves through the shelves until he finds it, bringing it back to the desk. He flips through the cloth bound tome, barely able to keep his hands steady. 

“Here we go. Chapter 2, Verse 22.” Misha quickly reads out the verse.

 

_vāsānsi jīrṇāni yathā vihāya_

_navāni gṛihṇāti naro ’parāṇi_

_tathā śharīrāṇi vihāya jīrṇānya_

_nyāni sanyāti navāni dehī_

 

“What does it mean?”

“ _As a person discarding worn-out clothes, puts on new garments, likewise the embodied soul, casting off worn-out bodies, enters into other bodies which are new._ " Misha reads the translation, looking up in wonder at Jensen. “He prayed for this! For another birth!” 

“But...but he was...wasn’t Indian. Hell, his brother was a priest!” 

“Cas lived here all his life, Jen, he probably believed more Hindu philosophy than the Christian one. Especially if his brother was a douche like Gabe said” 

“Huh. And what are those 7’s?” 

They check chapter 7 and all the seventh verses in the Gita, but none of them seem to fit the “forever” that comes after. 

“Maybe we can ask Krishna,” Misha thinks aloud. 

“You do that. I need some air.” Jensen shakes his head. “Man, two weeks, Mish! Two weeks and my life is fucking turned on its head.” He huffs, then walks out, “I’ll be on the verandah.”

Misha watches Jensen walk away, then goes in search of Krishna. He finds him in the kitchen, slumped (something Misha never thought he would ever see) over a tumbler of what looks suspiciously like brandy. 

“Krishna? How’s Gabe?”

“He’s resting now. It’s finally catching up to him, you know.” Krishna sniffs, his eyes rimmed red. “All that pent up grief, he never cried, not even when we found...Anyway, he’ll be fine. Can I get you something?” 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually. What’re you having?” 

“My only vice. Old Monk.” He holds his glass up, staring into the amber glow. “Master Gabriel was gifted the first batch and we’ve stocked it ever since. The brewery in Ghaziabad has an annual order delivered directly to the estate.” 

“Sounds good. Let’s take some for Jensen too. We want to ask you something anyway.” 

Krishna picks up the entire bottle along with his glass, while Misha loads a tray with two tumblers and an ice bucket. They make their way to the verandah where Jensen is standing at the marble balustrade, looking out at the twinkling lights in valley spread out below. 

Misha pours a drink for both Jensen and himself, handing Jensen his glass. “Um, so Krishna, we...uh, saw the photo. The one with the wall.” 

“Oh.” Krishna nods, “So you understand, now.” 

“We found the verse, yes. But I don’t know what the 7’s mean. That’s not from the Gita,” Misha clarifies. 

Krishna smiles sadly, “No, it’s not.” He pauses to take a sip from his glass. 

“Do you know what it's from?” Jensen asks, his impatience bleeding into his voice. 

“Hmm. Me.” He looks at both Jensen and Misha. “When Master Castiel came home one day, he said the Captain and him, they carved their names on a Deodhar at the Glen.” Misha and Jensen looked at each other. “He said it was their version of getting married. He was so happy and yet so sad that they would never get a chance to be actually wedded, formally. That day I told him about an Indian concept, _Gandharv Vivaah_. It means married in the eyes of God. No witnesses, no ceremonies, just the bride and groom promising their love and their fidelity to each other. How the scriptures declare it as a valid marriage, and even the legal system accepts it as such. It pleased him a lot.”

“But where do the 7’s come in?” Misha asks. 

“Mr. Misha, _saat janam ka rishta_?” He raises an eyebrow. “That is what a marriage is called, here.” 

“What does that mean?” Jensen asks. 

Misha answers him instead, “Seven births. The Indians say the vows of marriage last over seven reincarnations.”

 

 

Jensen contemplates this. So Castiel was praying for a second chance, a rebirth. Forever. 

And from what Jensen read of Dean’s journal earlier, it seems Dean hoped for a chance to redeem himself too. Hell, the man had resigned his post and lived at Gandhi’s Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad for a few years after independence, helping with the aftermath of the widespread communal riots, just because Cas was a devout follower of the Mahatma. If Gandhi hadn’t been assassinated, he probably would have stuck around longer, too. 

Cas loved Dean. Dean loved Cas. That much is clear from everything that they’ve learnt. 

What’s he supposed to do with that? And what does it mean for him Jensen, or even for Misha, for that matter. He knows that what he feels for Misha is much stronger than anything he has felt before. Does it matter if those feelings are influenced by the memories of a past life? He finishes the last of the rum in his glass, staring into his empty glass. Silently Misha pours him another, as Krishna gets up, pats him on the shoulder reassuringly, and shuffles out. 

They sit silently, digesting all that has happened since this morning. _God has it really been only this morning?_ It feels like a lifetime has passed since Jensen dreamt about the tree. Jensen shivers, either from the cold or something else. But it prompts Misha to get up and potter about on the balcony.  

He drags a weird looking contraption filled with wood logs, brings out a matchbook from his pocket, and proceeds to light a fire. 

“What the hell is that thing?” Jensen asks, seeking a distraction. 

“A washing machine.” 

“A what?!” Jensen scoffs incredulously. The wood fire bursts into flame, spreading its toasty  warmth in the chilly night air. 

“Yeah, see. It’s the inner drum. The bit that spins.” 

Looking closely, Jensen can see the resemblance. The metal bin is lined with holes, airing the fire, yet keeping them safe from stray embers. 

“That’s genius!! How the hell did Gabe get this?” 

Misha chuckles. “I told him about it. Not my idea. It was my _raddiwalla_ . That’s the guy that comes to collect the recycling stuff, you know old newspapers, bottles... stuff like that. Anyway, a few years ago my washer broke down so I had to get a new one, right? So I asked him if he wanted the old one. Now normally they pay you for the stuff. But I never take his money, I just want the stuff taken away, you know. So he takes the washer, with the rest of the stuff, then comes back a few days later with the drum. _‘Saheb, you are sitting all the time on nice balcony in day, now you are being able to sit in night also.’_ And that’s what he brought me.”  

Jensen can’t help laughing at Misha’s perfect imitation of an Indian accent, so he wheezes, “Wow, that’s amazing!” 

Misha grins. “Right?! The Indians call it _jugaad_. It’s sort of like a rough hack, you know. You’d be amazed at some of the things I’ve seen them come up with.” 

Jensen _is_ amazed. He has only ever known India as this exotic place with stunning locales and rich history, or through the cliched Bollywood films. But the India he encounters daily, through Deepak, through Misha, hell, even the _chaiwallas_ and random people in the street, is so unlike his own previous perceptions. Yes, India may be a seething mass of overflowing humanity, but the amount of _life_ they live in the smallest moments still astounds him. 

They’re both silent for a bit before Misha speaks up again, staring into the flames, “It’s something I’ve only seen here, you know. These people, Jensen, they face devastation with such calm acceptance. Oh they grieve, they rant, much like we do. But then..then they _accept_. It must be so...freeing. To look at something broken, but instead of writing it off and discarding it, they find function, purpose, in a different form. A broken washer becomes an impromptu fire pit. A new avatar, but still at its core, the same.”

Misha looks at Jensen then, his eyes dark, glittering from the reflected light, and Jensen senses a deeper intent. 

“But it isn’t a washer any more. It never will be again. So what is its identity now? Do you see a fire pit or do you insist on calling it what it was before, a washing machine? Where does one identity end, and the other begin?” Jensen can’t help but ask. 

Misha looks at him for a long time, staring into Jensen’s eyes, before he whispers, “I don’t see why the two identities need to be separated. I can see both just as easily. I see what it is now, in front of me, just as clearly as I can see what it used to be, and somewhere in my heart, that is enough.” 

Jensen can’t look away, doesn’t want to look away. They both know they aren’t talking about the machine anymore, but Jensen is reluctant to verbalise that just yet. 

Neither of them makes a perceptible movement, yet they are irrevocably closer. Staring into each other’s eyes, Misha’s hands come up to frame Jensen’s face, and he places a soft kiss on the actor’s lips. “I see _you_ , Jen, and you are enough.” 

Jensen decides he can live with that. He moves deliberately, pressing his lips to Misha’s, sealing the deal. 

From there, things unravel fast. All the build up from the first time they set eyes on each other, the pent up frustration from their days apart, and the emotional roller coaster that the day has been pours out. Frantic hands grasp at shirts and backs and clutch desperately at hair and faces. Someone moves, and suddenly Misha is on his lap, his face is buried in Jensen’s neck. Misha’s hips rock against his, and despite the barrier of two layers of denim, Jensen finds himself thanking god for delicious friction. 

“Mish. Mish, wait. Wait.” Misha stops immediately, beginning to move off Jensen’s lap, but Jensen doesn’t let him. “No, no Misha. I want this. Just… not here.” 

Misha nods, placing one final kiss, then says, “Come on, upstairs.” 

The climb up to the bedrooms takes much longer than usual, with intermittent stops where they steal kisses against the bannister and the wall. They stumble into a bedroom, impatient. Jensen registers vaguely that it isn’t his room but praise the lord, there’s a bed, and they tumble onto it, and that’s all that matters right now.

Someone mentions supplies, there’s some embarrassed chuckling because neither of them have been in any frame of mind to even think about bringing lube or condoms. Jensen doesn’t care, he needs relief, he needs _Misha_ . He needs Misha _now_. 

Shirts and t-shirts fly off, belts are unbuckled and pants become history and then there’s glorious skin-on-skin contact. It’s all a mass of sensation and emotion and raging _desire_.  

Later, when Jensen is more coherent, he’ll find it in himself to be embarrassed by how fast it is over, both men reaching their peak one after the other. But right now, well, right now Misha is panting into his neck, placing small butterfly kisses against his jaw and collarbone, and Jensen is too blissed out to do much more than run his hands along Misha’s back. 

They fall asleep like that, cuddled together, unwilling to let go of each other.  


 

Misha doesn’t know what wakes him up. He looks around in confusion, the room is still dark, but a look at the window confirms that dawn is just breaking across the horizon, the orange glow bright against the darkness of the sky. 

He rubs his eyes of sleep, looking around the room, and realises that he brought them to his old room instead of going to Jensen’s. He smiles, remembering their frantic groping. He hasn’t done that since he was a teenager! He looks down at the body wrapped around him. Jensen is so utterly peaceful in sleep, his long lashes fanning across his freckled cheeks, and a small smile plays across his lips. Pleasant dreams, then. Misha hopes he has a starring role in Jensen’s happy thoughts. 

Misha adjusts his sleep stiff shoulders, about to settle back for a bit longer, when his eyes land directly across the bed to the fireplace. An empty spot on the mantle stands out, and something clicks in his head.

He taps Jensen on the shoulders urgently, “Jen! Jensen! Wake up, Jen!” 

Sleepy green eyes blink open. “Huh? Wh...Whassup?” 

Misha is wide awake now. “Up, Jen come on, get up, I just remembered something.” He rises up, resting on one elbow as he looks down at his companion. 

Jensen squints up at him. “Mish! It’s too early!” 

“No, no. it’s almost morning! C’mon, it’s good, I promise.” Jensen looks like he may be going back to sleep, so Misha traces one finger teasingly over his jaw. “If you get up now, I’ll make it worth your while.” He sing-songs. 

“How?” Jensen pouts, and that’s the most adorable thing Misha has seen. 

“There are certain... supplies at my house. We can stop by there after.” 

That wakes Jensen up. Quick fast. He jumps out of bed. 

“Well get up, lazy bones! Don’t waste time.” 

Misha laughs, delighted. “Dress warm.” He calls after Jensen, who disappears into his room to change. 

They dress hurriedly, before sneaking down the stairs to Misha’s open top Jeep.

“So what is it Mish?” 

“Shhh. It’s a surprise, I think.” 

“You think?! You woke me up at ass-o-clock for _you think_?” Jensen asks incredulously. 

Misha looks sheepish. “I, I think I remembered something. I want to check it out. _With you_.” 

Jensen reaches across the centre seat and clasps Misha’s hand on the stick shift. “Okay.” He smiles broadly, his eyes shining in the brightening dawn light. 

Misha drives quickly to the Glen, parking as close as he can to the secluded spot with the tree. He pulls Jensen along behind him, running towards what he is already thinking of as “their” spot.

They stop in front of the tree, the intertwined letters take on new meaning with what they have found out. As they pause to catch their breaths, Jensen runs a hand lovingly over the design, tracing the D and C with one finger. “Okay. Okay.” 

Misha holds up a hand, “I don’t … I’m not sure if it’ll be here, okay? Just … just give me a moment.” 

Misha looks at the tree, then down at the ground. He picks up a pointy rock from the base. Then he lets instinct take over. His hands scramble frantically, digging into the dirt and pushing away what he loosens. Jensen gets the idea and starts helping. Misha bizarrely thinks of the Jurassic Park scene where the humans and raptors are digging at the barn floor. 

They get pretty deep without finding anything, and Misha considers giving up. Maybe it wasn’t anything. But he had been so certain, so sure…. _thunk_! 

The rock clangs against a metallic surface. 

Both Jensen and Misha freeze, staring at each other. Jensen gently parts the dirt away, and Misha can see a rusted white surface, and red letters. Their movements are gentle now, cautious, not wanting to damage whatever they have found. Soon the entire metal face is exposed, the words “Huntley and Palmers, Biscuit Manufacturers” faded but clearly legible. They pry the box loose from the soil, leaning back against the gigantic trunk of the tree. 

Misha looks at Jensen, who nods and whispers, “Open it.” 

With trembling hands, Misha pries open the lid of the container, rusted shut from years, decades of being buried. 

They both stare in awe at the contents.

Inside the tin, in a red velvet cloth, lay two wooden dolls. Two wooden _male_ dolls.

The dolls are made of dark wood, dressed in the traditional Indian costume worn by bridegrooms. One of them is dressed in a blue embroidered kurta, while the other wears a forest green one, matching garlands strung across both their necks made from red and green wool. The plinth that each doll rests on is shaped like a lotus flower, and carved on each plinth are words that make the tears finally spill from both men’s eyes. The doll with the blue kurta says “Cas”. The green one says “Dean”.

As they touch the two dolls reverently, the breeze whispers around them, a sigh, a laugh, a voice. It sounds suspiciously like someone saying “Forever”.

“Cas said... _I said_ I would wait for you. When I buried these here, I said I would wait. All this time! _That’s what I’ve been waiting for,_ ” Misha whispers, finally finding his answer.

They sit there for a long time. Jensen and Misha. Or maybe Dean and Cas. It doesn’t matter, not anymore.

They sit holding the idols, a lover’s gift, a good luck charm.

Eventually, the sun brightens over the horizon and the birds in the forest break out into their morning song.

Misha places the idols back into the biscuit tin and turns to Jensen, his eyes shining with tears, and something else. Love. Joy. Hope. He finds his feelings reflected back in Jensen’s as he leans across and kisses Misha tenderly.

Misha stands up and holds out his hand for Jensen. For the first time in many days, Jensen’s smile is carefree, unburdened. His smile is worth the tumultuous emotions of the past few days. His smile is worth everything.

“Let’s take them home again,” Misha says. “Let’s take them home _together_.”


	8. UPSANHAR: EPILOGUE

 

__

 

_No one is actually dead, until the ripples they have caused in the world die away..._

_~Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man_

 

 

 

**One year later...**

_Captain Dean Winchester does return to the Glen. For the final time._

_His face is lined with grief, the burden of guilt sits heavy on his shoulders, making them droop in defeat._

_The purpose of this visit, it is clear, is an unhappy one. To bid farewell. To close this chapter of his life._

_Absorbed in his own thoughts, the soldier barely registers his surroundings, his gaze laser-focused on his destination. A Deodhar tree, standing out, unique, solitary in a crowded forest._

_A tear banked in grief-torn eyes finally spills over, a solitary trail across a stubbled cheek._

_He places a trembling hand on the letters carved into ancient wood, “Cas,” his voice a ragged gasp, tearing through the silence pervading the Glen, “I’m sorry! I just… I’m not worthy Cas. I don’t deserve your love. I don’t deserve_ **_you_ ** _! God, if you knew the things I’ve done, what I’ve become! You’d hate me even more. I’d rather break your heart than put you through that, Cas. That’s why…” His voice wavers, a sob escaping his trembling breath, “That’s…”_

_Unwittingly, unknowingly, the soldier falls to his knees as he pours out his sins. A cathartic cleansing of his soul, not in a confessional in church, but in the presence of the celestial witness of his love, the mighty Deodhar that stands majestically tall._

_Dean, engrossed in his grief, misses the footsteps that approach their little haven, The sharp intake of breath of the man standing frozen at the edge of the trees. The man stares at Dean, agape, his fingers tightening around the scuffed tin he holds in his hand, as he listens to the heart rending confession of his lover, the righteous man that broke, in a hell made by evil men._

_“Dean!” A pained cry escapes the man’s dry lips._

_Dean whirls around in place, “Cas! Why...? What are you doing here?” He tries, and fails, to summon the courage to be disdainful once again. His voice, his eyes flit across conflicting emotions. Fear. Hope. Denial. Love._ **_Love_ ** _._

 _Cas cannot, will not let let this man suffer anymore. He rushes forward, envelopes Dean in his arms, “I came back. I came back for_ **_you_ ** _.”_

_“But…”_

_Cas places a hand on Dean’s lips, silencing his protest. “Shhh. It’s okay. It will be okay. You love me, still. That’s all that matters.”_

_Dean tries to disagree, but Cas moves his hand, capturing Dean’s lips in a kiss, his anger and frustration pouring out, “No, Dean. You don’t get to make that decision. You have no right. I decide. I have the right to choose. And I choose you. I love you.”_

_“But the things I did, Cas! How can you even…”_

_“It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate. You were manipulated. Even then, you were doing it to protect someone you loved. You did it to protect_ **_me_ ** _. And I know one thing. I know my fate rests with you.”_

_“I don’t know, Cas!  Don’t know if I can forget the things I did. I feel like I’m still stuck in that hell”_

_“Then let me help you. Let me be the one to grip you tight and raise you from perdition,” Cas declares simply, “Just… let me?”_

_Dean can only nod, overcome by emotion, tears streaming down his face, as he crumbles into the arms of the man he loves. Will always love._

_As they kiss, somewhere from the valley below, a hopeful tune, plucked on a single stringed Ektara, rises up to the skies._

_The Independence of India is being celebrated, the entire town of Shimla gathered on the Mall._

_Amidst laughter and tears, the joyful, hopeful shouts of the crowd rise in crescendo, as the two lovers stand, hand in hand. Together again._

_Forever._

Applause breaks through the audience, rising as one to give a standing ovation to the brilliance of Ben Edlund’s storytelling.

When the house lights come on, people surge to Jensen, congratulating him on his portrayal of Dean Winchester, as Misha looks on, proud of the man he fell in love with. Again.

Later, after the premiere and the parties, Jensen will go home, tired but content. He gave Gabriel his happy ending.

And Misha will go with him, to make it _their_ home. Together.

Shimla has finally relinquished her hold on him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A NOTE OF CAUTION: This story is a Destiel and Cockles piece (not combined), and I have tried to structure it so the only Destiel folks can avoid the Cockles. If RPF is not your jam, you can read ACT IV and the Epilogue. I will warn you though, that if you read Destiel only, you may see it as MCD since the happy ending happens in the reincarnation. I have, however, tried to give you a happy ending in the Epilogue, in any case.


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